


Quebec

by Agaryulnaer, sarisa



Series: Interlude [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agaryulnaer/pseuds/Agaryulnaer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarisa/pseuds/sarisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames drunk-dials Arthur yet again, and Arthur tracks him down. There is angst, gunfire, a soap opera, and fluffernutter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quebec

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last angsty one for a while! Er... I think... yes.

Eames takes a train from Kiev to Moscow, then a flight to Berlin, then to Boston, then a bus to Quebec. Of all the means of transportation, buses are Eames’ least favorite, which is why he takes one. He won’t be followed, this way. And yes, it occurs to him, on the bus, the flights, the train, that going to exactly where he’d said he was going to go is not the smartest thing in the world, if he doesn’t want to be found. But… when he thinks about it… when he finds himself booking bus tickets… he can’t change his plans. He just can’t do it.

It would be overkill, anyway, he tells himself, calmly reasonable by now. He has been, since the job. He’d gotten his things, gone to do the job, because that’s what he does, he can’t afford to not carry through. And he’d done it well. He’d made a killing. He’d gotten away. He could bloody well retire on the take from this one, if he didn’t squander it (which he will and always does). Normally he’d be reservedly pleased about this. He doesn’t feel a single thing. Not a twinge of relief or happiness or smug success.

The night at the casino had gone about as planned; he’d charmed and flirted and partied and walked out with more money than should be possible. The difference was that all the while, Eames hadn’t really been present. Oh, he’d done what he was supposed to do, what everyone expected, and he’d done it well. But it’d been like he was watching all of it from the backseat. No. Not even. Like he wasn’t even there. And the feeling persists, long into the cross-border trips, far across the ocean, until the bus drops him off and he wanders on foot to the fourth nearest motel and falls onto the bed in the darkness, alone, staring at the ceiling, thinks of nothing and feels less.

He doesn’t sleep for days. The second day he leaves the motel, renting a small secluded place on the outskirts of the city for a couple of months, and takes a cab there. He gives them the name Robert McKinley. He doesn’t know who Robert McKinley is, but he’d rather be that guy. He doesn’t let himself remember why that’s so, and every day he spends there, alone, he feels less like Eames than the last, quietly watching Canadian soap operas and living those dramatic lives because right now he doesn’t really have one of his own. And this consumes him, for weeks, until finally one night he wakes and it’s three-oh-bloody-eight-A-M _again_ , he’s had three hours of sleep, _maybe_ , and he storms into the bathroom, flipping the light on before angrily throwing water on his face as though that’ll help somehow. It clears the sleep away, at least, no dreams, and then he lifts his head, peering at himself in the mirror.

Nothing different. Same as always. It’ll never change, outside of dreams.

Eames doesn’t even know he’s punched through the mirror into the cabinet behind it until the pain hits him, belatedly suggesting that this may not have been the best idea ever. Eames ignores it and hits the fucking thing a couple more times for good measure until there’s glass everywhere, all over the place, and three thousand tiny reflections of him instead of just that one, and Eames hates them all. But at least that makes more sense, the pieces.

His hand has stopped bleeding by the time he’s discovered the liquor stash. It’s stopped hurting by the time he finished that and wanders out on foot to find more. He’s forgotten all about his hand at all by the time he picks up his cell phone. Weeks, how many weeks lost, he doesn’t remember ever deciding to come here or do the things he’s done. He knows he did these things but he didn’t, not really. But he does remember—oh, he remembers why. He doesn’t remember bursting into tears when he can’t make the numbers he’d memorized, burned into his skull, come in the right order the first three times he tries to call. But he keeps trying, because eventually, eventually he has to get it right.

When Arthur's phone rings, at first he thinks it's his alarm. He keeps pressing the button to get it to sleep, but it keeps going... and finally he realizes that it's not waking him up, it's actually ringing. This is not abnormal, since he tends to get job offers from around the world, and timezones being what they are...

He doesn't actually answer the phone like it's a job. When he sees that the numbers are ones he doesn't recognize, he has the phone to his ear in an instant, awake immediately despite the sleepiness still audible in his voice.

"Hello?"

He can hear someone breathing very faintly on the other end of the line. It feels like that pause before someone hangs up, but there's no way in hell anyone could get his number in order to prank call it, and his heart feels like it stutters in his chest before starting again. He's probably wrong. If he's not, he's going to trace this number and possibly beat him.

He's been answering the phone this way for weeks, since he'd gotten back to New York. He hasn't left, has stayed firmly planted despite the job offers that could have taken him out of the country. He's stuck to investigative work in the city, has kept close to home, and he's not going to delude himself into thinking that there's any reason for it besides wanted to be here, where Eames knew he was probably going. And he'd waited, gotten drunk more than once, felt like shit for weeks on end... hell, he still feels like the worst kind of shit imaginable. But here he is, still jumping every time the phone rings, unable or unwilling to stomp completely on the hope that maybe he didn't fuck everything up completely.

"Eames?" he says slowly, sounding quite awake this time.

It takes a moment, like the person on the other end of the line isn’t quite certain, but finally Eames feels himself nodding, and it takes him a long time to realize that Arthur can’t hear him. “Yeah,” he says, barely. He tries to keep his voice even, but it’s hopeless, the best he can hope is that the slurring stops him from being able to tell that he’s also a mess of tears and blood and Eames doesn’t even know what else.

He doesn’t know what to say after that. He doesn’t know why he called, can’t remember, except that he had to, he knew he had to. Even just to hear Arthur tell him to piss off, which he should, which would make sense, he just—he had to hear Arthur. That’s all. Because—because he’d—

And there Arthur is, answering his phone despite—and it does help, somehow, it helps a little, except it also doesn’t, because he’s such a stupid fuck, and he doesn’t deserve Arthur answering his phone at all. Eames very nearly hangs up a second time, but instead bangs his head against the wall behind him harder than strictly necessary and realizes suddenly that he is sitting on the floor of the place he’d rented, next to the front door, clutching an empty bottle of something that had tasted awful, but he still wants more. Except there is no more, and he can’t move.

“M’sorry,” he finally manages, and it’s slurred and quiet and barely comprehensible, but he says it. And then in a rush, “M’so sorry, Arthur, I didn’t- I’m sorry. I d’nt mean-- t’leave. I just don’t. I don’t—understand. Don’t know wt t’do.” He trails off, then, going from incomprehensible to worse.

Arthur spends a moment wondering why the man only ever calls him when he's drunk... but then clenches his own eyes shut, rubbing at his own forehead perhaps a bit too hard. He should be mad. He wants to be mad, really badly, right now. But he can't. Eames sounds... broken, and Arthur feels the anger draining away. The hurt is still there, but he pushes that away for the moment. What's filling him at the moment is worry. A very large amount of worry.

"It's okay," he says after a moment, forcing his eyes open and letting out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "It's... it's okay. It's in the past, all right? Where are you?" He waits for an answer, doesn't get one, and sighs. "You don't sound good. Are you okay?" Brief pause. "Are you bleeding or shot?"

 “No,” Eames mumbles after a moment. He doesn’t recall being shot or bleeding—wait. “Ah. Maybe.”

Blinking his eyes open with a great deal of effort, Eames spends a moment staring at the ceiling before forcing himself to lift his head away from the wall and stare down at himself. Legs, torso… hand. Oh. Well that doesn’t even count as bleeding, really. It doesn’t even hurt. “Not shot, just- just a little- s’okay,” he finally says, which is true, and then, because he can hear Arthur’s worry very clearly even though he can’t even make the room stop spinning, Eames adds quietly, “S’okay Arthur. Doesn’t hurt.”

Swearing under his breath, Arthur is already up, out of bed, and pulling on clothes. He's on his computer while trying to buckle his belt one-handed and hasn't even managed a shirt yet. "You idiot. How bad is the bleeding?"

Keep him talking. Don't let him hang up. The trace is running on the phone call by the time he realizes he needs a shirt and a coat, and Eames hasn't said anything in a minute. Pausing, he takes another deep breath, lets it out. Now is not the time to get into what had happened in Kiev. Now is also not the time to stop and think about what he's doing, about the fact that Eames has obviously been this drunk and probably bleeding before, and is a grown man who doesn't need someone running after him. Or about how pathetic it is that he's halfway to his car to go after a man who'd walked away from him when he'd managed to put his feelings into words.

The feelings... they don't matter. Not right now. He'll just go, see for himself that Eames is all right, isn't sitting there with a bottle of scotch and a gun, and then he'll come back. But he's not stupid enough to say that he's on his way, because he doesn't really fancy the idea of showing up and finding the forger already gone.

"Put a towel on it anyway," he orders, forcing his tone down to gentle. "Whatever's bleeding. Clean it off." He's in his car, GPS on, and he's got the Bluetooth in his ear. Six and a half hours, according to the little device. Hah. He'll be there in five... and that seems like way too long.

Jolted out of what had likely been the beginnings of completely passing out by Arthur’s voice, Eames lifts his head again with the greatest of efforts, looking down at his hand. Bleeding… clean it off. But it’s not bleeding anymore, really, Eames thinks, and he tries to tell Arthur this, but words aren’t really coming. All that seems to be coming is blackness, because he’d had to call Arthur, that was the only reason he’d been awake, and now that that’s accomplished, it’s as though unconsciousness can finally claim him.

He fights it though, barely, enough to mumble, “It’s. It’s not anym’r. Don’t think c’n get up. M’sorry.” At this point, he doesn’t even remember why he’s apologizing, the reason, but still feels the need to, very keenly. He doesn’t think it has anything to do with not being able to put a towel on his hand. “V’ry sorry.”

He’s silent for another long moment, and then in a barely coherent mumble adds, “Wh-why d’ I miss you so m’ch, Arthur,” before promptly passing out, the last of his energy spent.

"I miss you, too," Arthur says under his breath, but there's no response, and after a few minutes he hangs up, having assumed correctly that Eames is no longer conscious. Pulling the headset out of his ear, he hits the accelerator, perfectly willing to mow people over in order to get where he's going more quickly. Fucking FDR. It's seven in the fucking morning; where the fuck are people even going?!

Five and a half hours later, his Beemer screeches to a stop outside the small rental house where the call that morning had originated; it's out in the middle of fucking nowhere, frankly, but he doesn't stop to be annoyed by that, jumping out of the car and hurrying up the front steps to try the door. It's unlocked, and he swears in a mutter, too worried to care much at the moment. He'll be pissed later.

When he opens the door and sees the mess the house is in, he decides he has a hell of a shit-ton to be pissed about. A snore originating from the floor next to the door has him looking down to find Eames lying there, tipped over sideways, an empty glass bottle a few inches from his hand and his phone still open. The screen's dark, probably out of batteries, and Arthur rolls his eyes, kicking the door shut with a bang.

The forger twitches a little at that, groans a bit, but doesn't open his eyes, and Arthur drops down to his knees next to him, swearing again, more violently this time, when he sees the blood covering the other man's fist. Dozens of small slices cover his hand and his wrist, little pieces of glass still stuck in some of them. "Shit," Arthur whispers, grimacing.

He considers the healing bullet-wound in his own arm, and then sighs. Well, priority one, getting that cleaned up and bandaged. Priority two... everything else.

Eames wakes up slowly. Very, very slowly. He feels… sort of like he’s on a carnival ride, with the world tilting at odd angles, balance all wrong, and his eyes aren’t even open yet. His head is fuzzy and painful enough that he wakes up wishing he were dead, or at least decapitated, and that thought doesn’t confuse him. His throat hurts marginally less. And, he realizes all of a sudden, his hand hurts like bloody hell.

He tries to swear, but all that comes out is a weak moan, and with a great, great deal of effort, Eames finally stretches out of the tiny ball he seems to have curled into under the covers—hold on. He’s in bed? He doesn’t remember going to bed. But then again, he hardly remembers anything at all of last night, at least not yet. He supposes it’s possible that he dragged himself here.

When he opens his eyes even the tiniest bit, the light does its very best to murder him via stabbing pain, and Eames closes them again with a groan. It takes a long time for him to try again, and when he does, the first thing he does is eye his hand. He remembers… the mirror. He’d hit the mirror. He won that fight, he supposes, and then he’d gone drinking… so when… when did he clean up his hand?

He didn’t. Eames is confident that he did no such thing. Which is why he manages to finally glance around the room, braving the searing pain even the dim light produces in order to solve this mystery before the throwing up part begins. And what he finally spots makes him freeze, confused, and much, much too afraid to hope. He’s dreaming. How can he be dreaming? He hasn’t dreamt in ages. “Arthur?” he finally manages, voice hoarse and pained and strangely quiet, shades of the phone call the morning before still in his tone.

Arthur is sitting on the chair in the bedroom, having deposited the dirty laundry that had been dropped on it rather unceremoniously onto the floor. He has his laptop on his lap, his portable Wifi receptor on the chair arm next to him, and he doesn't look up, feet propped up on the end of the bed.

"You're a fucking idiot," is his only response, although he does lower his voice, rather considerately. "If you're going to puke, aim for the trashcan. I can't carry you back up and down the stairs again." Without looking up from the screen, he points to the metal wastebasket next to the bed, already lined with a plastic shopping bag.

Still in a bit of shock- which he thinks is understandable since at the moment he doesn’t recall even calling Arthur- Eames simply stares at him for a minute or two, trying to comprehend what the fuck is going on. Arthur’s ability to find people has always seemed just shy of magic, to Eames. This is almost too much for his poor, pained brain to comprehend.

He wants to ask where the hell Arthur came from. He also wants to ask why he bothered carrying him up or down stairs in the first place. And how he found him. And why, instead of punching him, or maybe shooting him, he cleaned up his hand and dragged him to bed. It makes no sense, and Eames’ mind just can’t wrap around it at the moment.

So instead, he just says, “Y’right. Okay,” in barely more than a whisper, agreeing to all of that without even a thought of a token protest, and promptly lies back down to wait until the vomiting begins and wonder blearily how he didn’t end up with alcohol poisoning.

Arthur's eyes tick upward at that, and he stares at Eames over the top of the computer for a long couple of minutes before he looks to the side, jaw clenched around the rest of what he wants to say. Not now. Not now. Not the time.

Shutting the laptop, he stands and sets it down on the chair, walking out of the bedroom. He needs to move. He can't sit still.

He almost goes back, a few minutes later, when he hears the sound of puking, but he figures correctly that no one really wants anyone watching them when they're vomiting. So he waits until the choking sounds subside before he walks back up the stairs and into the room, nearly losing his own lunch at the sadly familiar aroma of bile and regurgitated alcohol. He hands Eames his handkerchief without a thought for losing it, and sets the glass of water he'd gotten on the nightstand for when it's needed, next to a couple of painkillers.

"Better?" he asks, just as quiet as the other man had been, before. "You look like shit, no offense. It's not even the shirt." Said shirt is another one of those short-sleeved, weirdly-patterned and -colored monstrosities Eames favors, but the sight is a familiar one, and isn't unwelcome, because it's Eames. And Arthur is well aware of how pathetic that sounds, even in his head.

"Look, I didn't mean to... say what I said, and fuck everything up. That was the last thing I wanted." He drags a hand through his hair. "I'm the one that's sorry." He swallows hard. "I'll be downstairs, if you need anything." And then he's grabbing the computer and getting the hell out of that room.

Arthur is long gone by the time Eames tries to say something; he knows he should, knows he has to say something, anything... but Arthur has fled, and Eames supposes... well, he deserves that. Actually, no. He deserves Arthur to not be here at all. He still isn't entirely certain he believes that this is real. But there's nothing he can do about any of this, because even though he _does_ feel marginally better now that he's lost everything that was in his stomach (just alcohol), Eames is not about to be moving anywhere. He can barely move his head enough to throw up somewhere besides where he's lying. Getting up to follow Arthur is laughable. Trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Arthur is _here_ in the first place is laughable.

And so, feeling all sorts of helpless underneath all sorts of pained, Eames watches Arthur go, managing to mumble, "Okay," long after the man has already gone out the door.

Hours later finds Eames in much the same spot as he had been, stomach emptied thrice over and head beginning to feel more like a head and less like a watermelon someone had taken a jackhammer to. He's acquainted enough with hangovers to know that he's finally reached the point where he's done vomiting, which means the worst is over. It also means it's time to drag himself into the shower. And brush his teeth. And try to figure out just what the fuck he did that ended with Arthur here.

A million years later he makes it to the bathroom. Half a second later has him standing there, staring at the mirror with fist-sized holes in it surrounded by cracks in the mirror, lacing out into the entire thing, thousands of tiny pieces missing. And they are just that: missing. Eames never cleaned them up, but-- swearing, Eames looks away from what was once the mirror. Arthur, of course, unless there is a very odd burglar out there who broke in (easy as hell, considering) and decided to clean the bathroom. Doubtful, and the guilt that Eames had been ignoring all day- it was easy what with the pounding headache and the vomiting to concentrate on- triples. He left Arthur there in Kiev, just wandered off, and then he doesn't know exactly what happened but suddenly here he is, losing his bloody mind, and Arthur shows up, to what? Clean up after him? It's not what he deserves, and Eames knows it, and he's glad the mirror is done for because that hatred isn't really gone, because he did this and he deserves this but Arthur does not. Of the two of them, _he's_ the one fucking up.

Eames tries not to think-- much, because too much not thinking leads to lost weeks, and he can't, he just can't do that to Arthur again-- as he eyes his toothbrush for spare bits of glass. It's clean, and so Eames spends a long time brushing his teeth and trying to get the taste of regurgitated alcohol out of his mouth, to make something better, physical things, the only things he can do anything about right now. When he's done, the toothbrush has seen better days, but then again, so has he.

It takes a lot of willpower to convince himself to get in the shower, and once he's there, Eames just turns the water on and slides down the wall, sitting with his eyes closed and letting the spray hit him. Eventually, he will get up and clean himself. Right now, he is spending most of his energy trying to convince himself not to crawl into the nearest hole and die of starvation like the stupid, bloody _stupid_ fuck that he is.

At some point, Arthur had passed out on the couch downstairs, exhausted himself. It had been a long few weeks of... well, they hadn't been pleasant. He'd half-convinced himself that hoping Eames would call was a ridiculous idea, and stupid, and... well, basically blaming himself for opening his mouth in Kiev. If he hadn't said something, if he'd managed to _control_ himself, this wouldn't have happened. They'd had a good, workable... thing... and he'd been the one to screw everything up by involving feelings.

Well, he'd spent a month going over it, and assigning a good bit of self-blame. But as soon as the phone had finally rung, here he'd run. He's still not entirely sure... well. It's a bit pathetic, is pretty much what he's decided, which he'd actually decided, now that he recalls it, before he'd even left New York. But he'd come anyway. Doesn't say much for his willpower. And yet... when he'd heard Eames on the phone...

This is not normal, how he'd sounded. How he'd punched straight through the mirror. This is so far from the normal, usually together Eames that... well, he doesn't even know what to think. But he's worried. Deep down, more than worried, he doesn't know. But what he is sure of is that pathetic or not, he did the right thing, coming here, because he does not think that Eames is okay, right now. And that... he can keep that separate from his own feelings. Hell, he might just be thrown out on his ass once the forger is sober and past his hangover, he doesn't know. He's probably not wanted here. It had taken an obscene amount of alcohol for Eames to even call him; that says something. But he'd like to be sure Eames at least won't bleed to death before that happens.

He finally passes out on the couch, unable to worry about it all anymore, at least for a while, and wakes to the sound of the shower finally turning off, and the bathroom door opening. Instinct has him wanting to bolt upright, but he forces himself to lie where he is on the couch, staring at Eames as he appears. He still looks like shit, not surprisingly, but Arthur is at least kind enough not to point that out again, choosing silence instead. Slowly, he sits up and then stands, having a bit of trouble meeting the other man's eyes, which is an odd reversal of roles.

Eames, on the other hand, spends a long moment just staring back at Arthur, wishing he had thought of something to say before he'd come out here. But he tried, and there was nothing, he has no idea what to say. He's clean, done vomiting, and marginally coherent. His brains no longer feel like they're trying to melt out of his ears, which is a bonus, but the headache has really only been downgraded from "apocalyptic" to "shot in the head," so that's not really saying much. But at least he's clean and upright. He doesn't think he'd be either of those things if Arthur hadn't shown up. He doubts he'd have moved from wherever he'd been before Arthur had moved him.

Not only that, but he'd probably have spent the entire day there, maybe two, not moving to vomit and his hand still a bloody mess. Well, his hand _is_ still a mess, but not bloody, and there doesn't seem to be any glass in it; Eames had checked once he'd gotten out of the shower, looking it over before re-wrapping it. Hurts like a mother, but that's to be expected. In retrospect: pain, seven years of bad luck, huge mess, and it's going to hurt to do anything with that hand for a while, which is bloody awesome as it's his left hand (and he's left-handed). Not worth it.

But he doesn't say anything about that to Arthur, doesn't know _what_ he'd say, is strangely embarrassed by how very obviously he had lost it and the fact that Arthur had witnessed the aftermath, at least. It's uncomfortable, and there's no easy way to explain it, and he doesn't know why he's even considering doing so except that Arthur is here and he looks awful and Eames has never felt like such an arse but he's also never been so relieved to see someone. It's confusing, almost too much in the state he's in right now.

"Thank you," he finally says, knows it took him a long time to make words come, but this has to be said. His voice is hoarse and it sounds painful to speak (it is), and he's quiet, oddly subdued, because his head- it's just because of his head. "I- I don't..." Know why he came? Really remember anything he said to Arthur, how he got here, what happened...? But Arthur is probably aware of that. It's strangely difficult to speak, even beyond the headache and his throat and the uncomfortable feeling that isn't as mind-numbing as it had been a few hours ago. Yesterday? A week ago? But he hasn't spoken in weeks, really, maybe that's it. Eames takes a breath and it hurts.

God. _Everything_ hurts, and it'll be that way for a day at least. His eyes want to water but they won't. He just ends up staring at Arthur, then a spot next to his head, then the floor. There is so much more he wants to say but he can't make the words form just yet. "I just... thank you. And... I'm sorry." He doesn't even know what he's apologizing for right now, but at least this time he'll remember doing it. He has no idea what he's trying to say. He feels like he was hit by a truck. Hit and run over. Twice.

Arthur nods slowly, numbly, his eyes ticking up to meet Eames' and then flicking away almost immediately. "Don't worry about it," he mumbles after a minute, seemingly having the same problem with speech as the other man but without the excuse of a hangover or not speaking for weeks. But he means it; Eames doesn't have to worry about thanking him or apologizing to him. It's... not an issue. "I just... wanted to make sure you weren't bleeding out, or something."

Because that totally explains driving some six hundred miles across an international border at life-threatening speeds. He swallows hard, looking away. "Sorry for just... showing up." Again. But this time... he definitely hadn't intended to. He'd thought... well, if Eames changes his mind, he knows where to find me, he can come to me. He'd been pretty damned certain that he wouldn't be going anywhere, thank you. But as it turns out, all it had taken was one damned phone call, and he'd been out the door. As illustrated.

He wants to ask what the hell had been going through the other man's mind, why the fuck he'd punched through a damned _mirror_. Not cracked it, not broken it, but had put his fist _through_ it. That does not strike Arthur as a terribly healthy mental state. But as the whole disappearing from the damned street had illustrated, his company might not be welcome, sorry though the other man might be when he's drunk. "I can go, if you want." He's already bending over to put his laptop back into his briefcase, just trying to keep his hands busy. And maybe not scream. Yeah, that would be good, he thinks.

Eames' jaw clenches a little at that, and he pauses, staring again. Yeah. He deserves that. He knows why Arthur would think he wants him to go. It's not a huge mystery. It's not like he's been particularly clear in his intentions. In fact, Eames is fully aware that he's been about as wishy-washy as humanly possible. Maybe more than is humanly possible. He doesn't give off mixed signals. They aren't mixed. They're signals that have never been interpreted. In some other language. He doesn't know. Metaphors not working right now. He's halfway to braindead and starting to feel ill again for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol consumption.

He doesn't know why Arthur is here in the first place, any more than he knew why he'd come to Kiev, or... anything else. It makes no sense, he _certainly_ doesn't deserve Arthur worrying about him, and now Arthur is apologizing, and that's just... beyond Eames, frankly. Granted, at the moment pretty much everything is beyond him, but he has the feeling this would be beyond him sans hangover from hell.

"That would be far more than fair," Eames finally manages, and it's true. Because good Lord, 'fair' would be Arthur beating him into the ground. Eames hasn't figured out why that hasn't happened yet, is still waiting for it in one form or another. Maybe he's waiting for Eames to heal a bit first so that it's not drowned out by searing hangover pain. Maybe he doesn't think it's worth it. Christ. How much more can one man fuck up everything? "But I don't." And it hurts to say, because it's the truth, and it was probably the truth weeks ago, but he'd fled anyway, he'd up and ran halfway around the world, and Eames doesn't know why or how it even happened. He just knows that he did and now here he is and there Arthur is and Arthur should leave precisely _because_ Eames doesn't want him to. Abruptly, Eames wants to sit down, but he can't move. "Bloody Christ, I don't know what I want, it- it doesn't matter."

 _That_ gets the point man's attention, and his eyes snap back up to look at Eames, who, not surprisingly, isn't looking at him. "It doesn't matter," he echoes disbelievingly, temper sparked. " _Bullshit._ Fucking _bullshit._ "

His fists clench. "If it didn't matter, you wouldn't have fucking _bolted_ in Kiev and left me standing on a _fucking street corner_! You wouldn't have just goddamn punched _through a goddamn mirror!_ " Eames flinches, has flinched multiple times, and right now, that is extremely satisfying. "I goddamn _get_ that you don't know what you want! That much has been made clear! Crystal-fucking-clear! Will you _fucking look at me?!_ "

After a moment, he does, and when Arthur sees his expression he immediately feels like a dick. But that doesn't negate the fact that he is still _entirely fucking pissed_ , far beyond his usual ice-cold anger into the land of his brain melting out of his ears and his temples throbbing. Very slowly, he takes a breath, then lets it out. This does nothing. Fuck. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he's aware that losing his temper is doing absolutely nothing to help the situation, and is in fact only making Eames look... worse. But Arthur has never been one for self-pity parties, tempting though they might sometimes be, and he refuses to let himself sink into that, into the temptation to wallow and bemoan his sorry state. _Oh, woe is me, I confessed my love and he ran the hell away. Woe is fucking me._ Yeah, right. He has spent a month expecting that Eames would have moved right along from Kiev, perfectly fine, and he finds him looking like hell in a piece of shit rental house in the middle of fucking nowhere, apparently having the mother of all depressed episodes.

He could be wrong. But that's his evaluation of the situation.

"I'm going... for a walk. Or something. So I don't throttle you." His voice is more a growl than anything, and his expression has reverted to stone-faced once again. "If you... if you fucking _leave_ again, go anywhere, try anything stupid, I will find you wherever you are and I will make you regret it. Fucking eat something while I'm gone." The door slams behind him.

After that, Eames stands silently in the same spot for a long time, half afraid to move, half simply unable. That… had been strangely… less confusing. Expected. Leaves him feeling like absolute scum, yes, worse than that (and his ears are ringing, but Eames feels that he deserves that), Eames doesn’t even know how to describe what he feels in reaction to that, but at least he has the sense that he deserved it. He absolutely did, and he knows he did, and it makes so much more sense than Arthur driving from New York, he assumes, to come make sure he wasn’t dead or dying. After all of that, Eames would have expected Arthur to _want_ him to be dead or dying.

He’s more than a little surprised, frankly, that Arthur _hadn’t_ throttled him, or at least taken a swing or two. Eames… probably would have let him. No, definitely would have. Severe guilt seeps out from somewhere mid-chest, finally overcoming the throbbing pain in his head and hand, and Eames really doesn’t like this any better, but it all does feel very deserved.

Maybe that’s why he came, Eames thinks as he sits down and finds himself listening almost breathlessly, waiting for the sound of Arthur’s car starting and taking off. He left his laptop. Arthur wouldn’t leave that behind… but then, but then maybe he would. Maybe that’s why he came. Maybe he came to have it out. Eames wouldn’t deny him that, even though that few seconds of Arthur having it out left him shaking very minutely. Which is stupid. Bloody stupid, and not like him. He’s not intimidated like that, even when he deserves it. It’s just not—it’s not how he is.

And, he realizes, there’s no way he’s going anywhere, no way he’s leaving. Even if he wanted to, there’s no way. Or if he didn’t want to- Eames isn’t convinced he wanted to at all the last time, but he can’t think about that right now. The point is, he won’t be leaving, he won’t be doing anything stupid, or at least no more stupid than usual. He can barely _stand_. And as for eating something… the very idea makes him vaguely ill, but Eames finds himself half afraid that if he doesn’t, that will be the final straw. He can’t seem to do anything _else_ right, but Eames has the feeling he’ll be forcing something down his throat because that’s one thing he _can_ do, no confusion there.

Arthur returns about half an hour later, having stalked most of the way down the potholed road and back to the house. He appears, now, to be perfectly composed, perfectly in control of his temper, and really, he is significantly calmed down. He also feels a bit like an ass for going off on Eames like that, but he doesn't let himself regret it. He's pretty sure he was entitled to the outburst.

By now, though, he's moved on from anger completely into worry. It's an undeniable relief to find the car still parked in front of the house, even though he's sure it would have passed him on the road if it had left. And it does... make him feel a good bit better, to see it there. He'd worried, and quite understandably, he thinks.

What is he supposed to make of the fact that Eames... doesn't want him to leave? After walking away from him, vanishing from the middle of the damned street? What the hell is he supposed to think about that? That he'd either terrified or horrified the other man enough that he'd run, but he'd still... missed Arthur? Doesn't want him to go, now? It makes no sense, but obviously there is other stuff going on. Something is wrong, and Eames is dealing with it in a really shitty fashion. Or rather, not dealing with it. That might be a better description.

He's not sure what he'll find when he opens the front door again, but it's definitely a relief to see Eames sitting on the couch with a box of crackers... staring at it. And then staring up at him, looking surprised; Arthur blinks back down at him, brows going up. He doesn't say anything, though, not sure what there _is_ to say, but instead just moves to sit down on the sofa as well, keeping a few inches' distance between them. Enough that Eames could push him away if he wanted, and he's not in the other man's space.

"So," he says after a minute. "Was it the mirror or your own reflection that offended you?"

That gets a snort out of Eames that sounds more normal than he’d sounded the last several times he’d attempted speech, but still isn’t quite up to par. He’s not sure if that was intended to be as funny as it seems, considering. It’s funny in a not actually funny sort of fashion, which is precisely why it vaguely amuses Eames. Who will admit to relief himself that Arthur had returned, although not that he had returned just in time to find him sitting on the couch, mid-staring contest with a box of crackers.

On the other hand, at least it proves that he’s trying to do as ordered. Unfortunately it does nothing to hide how surprised he is to find Arthur back and not immediately attacking him. Eames had thoroughly convinced himself that that’s what would happen, should Arthur return at all. It would have served him right if Arthur had never come back, just left him waiting.

And yet… here he is. Again. Christ. What a cock-up. Him, not Arthur. Eames has what he feels like at the moment might be the suicidal desire to move closer to Arthur, but he doesn’t dare. There’s no way he would dare that right now.

“Bloody mirror’s been mouthing off to me all week,” he mumbles hoarsely, but it falls flat, even to his ears, even though it’s exactly what he should say and he knows it. That is an Eames response, to a tee. He supposes… well, he’s allowed to be off. He’s hung over. He’ll worry on it later. So instead of wondering about that, instead of stubbornly fighting to maintain that, he eyes his bandaged hand and seriously doubts that Arthur is going to take much brushing off of the matter. He’s already on thin ice, or he feels like he is. He hasn’t even eaten a cracker yet. “It seemed very… reasonable at the time.” Which is only marginally true, since he hadn’t really stopped to think about whether or not it was reasonable or anything at all, really. He’d just… done it.

"Did it." Arthur sits back on the couch, dragging a hand down over his face. "I don't know if I want to know whether you being plastered had anything to do with that." He sighs, and then looks around the room, at the takeout containers and pizza boxes and bottles of alcohol scattered on most of the flat surfaces, including on top of the television.

"Was it in any way connected to the fact that this place is a sty?" Letting his hand fall, he looks over at Eames, who seems to have resumed his staring contest with the saltines. "When you said you were lying low in Quebec, this wasn't exactly what I expected." Of course, this is also the man who survives on a loaf of bread and M&Ms, but that's not the point, at the moment at least.

Eames withholds a sigh at that, not wanting to announce what he’s thinking: that it hadn’t really been what he’d expected, either. But then again, he doesn’t really know _what_ he’d expected. And… well. He hadn’t really been particularly present the last few weeks. And if it’s not what Arthur had expected, then, well, he’d done a good job lying low, hadn’t he? Except Arthur had found him. Eames hopes that had something to do with the phone, because if it didn’t that means someone _else_ could find him, and Eames doesn’t know what he’d do if someone else showed up.

He’s not particularly ashamed of the way the place looks; after all, the way he keeps himself is normally nowhere near Arthur’s standards. The fact that Arthur had cleaned up after his battle with the mirror, on the other hand, is severely uncomfortable. But Eames is glad to leave that be.

The saltines are not getting any more appetizing looking the longer he stares at them. Eames seems to be losing this battle. “This seems low enough to lie,” he says after a moment, wondering if just one would make him immediately vomit again, or if maybe he could sneak it past his stomach. “I suppose not leaving for groceries seemed reasonable as well.” He’s not entirely sure. He had very little to do with it. “You’re right. It’s a mess. I’ll clean up when my brain decides to stay inside my head for certain.”

Arthur winces, but then just nods, considering the food situation. "I could run out and get some things," he offers. He's not sure why he does, except... well, he has the car with him. And Eames isn't exactly in any sort of shape to go anywhere. Plus, he's hungry himself, as he's just now begun to realize. But he still... doesn't know if his company will be desired. He's not sure why he's letting himself worry about it, but he is. Eames isn't the type of guy to say he'd rather Arthur not go just to spare Arthur's feelings, no, but he's also hungover, and he might change his mind. He also might not want to accept any help from the point man. Arthur doesn't know. Pride can be a pain in the ass sometimes, and he is in no way exempting himself from feeling it.

He looks away, wanting to ask if this, all of this, Eames living like this, getting completely smashed, is because of him, Arthur. If he'd caused this. But he doesn't want to bring it up again. He has no idea what's going on in the other man's head, frankly. And that comment about it being low enough is bothering him more than a little.

"You sounded pretty fucked up on the phone," he says finally. "It's probably none of my business, but... you know if... there's stuff... you can tell me. I won't, you know, pass judgment or anything."

Eames wants to snort at that, too, but he doesn’t, for the sake of sparing Arthur; it would seem like he’s implying that the other man _would_ pass judgment. That’s not why he wants to snort. Well, it is, a little, but he doesn’t want it to seem like he thinks Arthur would be a bastard about any of his… stuff. Because there is always stuff. Everyone has… stuff. It’s just that his is a little more judgment-worthy than most. It wouldn't be Arthur's fault.

It’s strangely temping, though. To tell him. Arthur had told _him_ things, after all. Eames hadn’t minded that, had been happy to listen, to keep Arthur’s secrets. But last night… this morning… these past few weeks… all of it, it’s just… he just can’t. He wouldn’t know where to begin. And he can’t. He can’t thrust all of that upon Arthur and expect it to be okay. Not after what he’d done in Kiev. Not after the arsehole way he’s treated the other man. And, if he’s honest with himself, not without being terrified of scaring the other man off for good. There is always a point, everyone has a point where it’s just too bloody much, and Eames knows very well that he has an amazing ability to find and hit that point without trying, let alone baring his cocked-up soul.

“I don’t remember what I said on the phone,” he admits quietly after a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much of last night at all.” He’s sure he _did_ sound “fucked up.” He _felt_ fucked up. He feels marginally less fucked up now, but that might only be because there is no room in his pounding head for feeling anything but a raging headache. “I don’t think I can eat yet, Arthur. I’ve been staring at this for twenty minutes, and it seems to be winning.”

"Well at least you know when to accept defeat." With that rather ambiguous statement- though it wasn't meant that way- Arthur sighs a little, weighing whether or not to relay their conversation of that morning. In the end, he does decide that Eames should know, if only so they're on the same page.

"You called me and you apologized for leaving in Kiev." His voice is even, neutral, with no feeling behind it, positive or negative. "Then you said you were bleeding, and that it didn't hurt, which had me worried enough to drive up here, considering how plastered you were." He pauses for a long moment, almost as though that is the end of it. But he does relay the last bit. "Then you asked me why you missed me so much, and passed out."

Eames blinks at that, still staring at the box of crackers. He very nearly says mutters something along the lines of ‘oh, is that all?’ but keeps it to himself for some reason. At least, he supposes, the retorts are there. They just don’t make it out. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, but better than not thinking the comments at all. Anyway, it wouldn’t be appropriate right now, and Eames knows that. Not that that always stops him. In fact, it really shouldn’t.

“Sounds about right,” he says after a moment, instead. He did miss Arthur. Or he did by that point. Or he wouldn’t have called. Christ. Why the hell would he ask Arthur that? You don’t just… lord.

After a moment, Eames closes his eyes, leaning his head on the back of the couch for a moment and trying to gather his thoughts. At least that’s what he seems to be doing, he might be attempting to fall asleep. But of course he never will. “I _am_ sorry,” he says finally, and then he opens his mouth, ostensibly to continue… and just… can’t. He doesn’t have any bloody idea what to say. How do you apologize for a thing like that? You don’t. He can’t even explain himself. Lord. What a fool, to think for a second that he could have anything to do with Arthur and not end up mucking everything up.

"Don't... It's fine." Arthur's eyes are closed, as well. It's not fine, it's the farthest thing from fine, but... what else is he supposed to say? It doesn't matter? It _does_ fucking matter, as he'd stated quite clearly, earlier. He has no idea what response is appropriate, right now. Any physical response is pretty much out the window, after Kiev, not with him initiating it.

There is one clarification he'd like, though. "Are you apologizing for running? Or for calling?" Oh, fuck it. He'd already put his feelings out there, hadn't he? Gotten them about as tramped on as possible- what the hell could anything more hurt? "Because I was glad you did. Call. Even if you were drunk-dialing me. Again."

 “For running,” Eames says after a momentary pause. “Not- well. I don’t know, I suppose I could also apologize for continually drunk-dialing you. I would be more certain apologies are necessary if I recalled any of these incidents.” He vaguely recalls the first time, actually. At least he’d known he’d called Arthur, and had a vague recollection of the conversation. The second time, he’d only had a suspicion until he’d seen his phone. This time, he wouldn’t have known at all if Arthur hadn’t been here when he woke.

This would be the part where he’s supposed to make a quip about drunk-dialing Arthur or his subconscious or something, but Eames has zero desire to comment on his subconscious at the moment, and about as much energy when it comes to thinking up quips. Especially not when Arthur says he was glad he did.

That gets Eames to open his eyes, and he turns a little, looking over at the other man. That makes no sense. None. Good Christ, he just doesn’t understand any of this, and his brain is much too akin to a punching bag at the moment for Eames to be able to comprehend this conversation properly. “But maybe not. If you didn’t mind.”

"I didn't," Arthur says quietly after a minute or so. He is in no way going to mention that he'd answered the phone pretty damn obsessively for the past few weeks, each time hoping that it might be Eames. _That_ would qualify as pathetic, as though he doesn't already.

He lets out a breath. "I should never have said anything. Now it's all... fucked up. You never said it was anything more than sex, and I knew that, and I swore I wasn't going to tell you, and then... I don't know why the hell I did. But I'd really rather you'd've just punched me, that would have been better than disappearing." He leans forward with a quiet, pained sound, and rests his head in his hands, dragging them over his face. "And I am pretty damned pathetic, because you fucking ran away from me, and here I still am, like a kicked puppy, because you were drunk enough to say you missed me, too."

Fuck. Brain to mouth filter. Gone. What the hell. Where did it go? " _Fuck._ Just... tell me to leave whenever, I'm a fucking idiot, that's... fine."

There’s a long silence after that. A _long_ silence, because Eames is staring at Arthur in something approximating shock, unable to comprehend the words the point man had just spoken. How Arthur could possibly think that _he_ fucked everything up is just—it just doesn’t make any sense. And yes, Eames hasn’t the slightest idea why Arthur had come here after that, but—but he’s not a kicked puppy. Lord, Arthur is probably the most consistent, reasonable person he knows. No. Not probably. He is. And so this—this is just… Eames doesn’t know, but it’s _wrong_.

“You’re not an idiot,” is the first thing that comes out of Eames’ mouth, and it’s the first time all day he’s really sounded like himself. The noise Arthur had made—it’s just too much. His voice is stronger when he repeats, “You’re not. You’re the farthest thing from an idiot.”

He wants, more than anything, to reach over, to try to comfort Arthur, but… Eames is pretty sure he’d lost that privilege. He has no right. But that doesn’t stop him from going on. “Arthur, you’re not to blame. I—“ he cuts off. This is where he should stop. But instead he carries on, seeming to gain steam as he goes because even though he’s not loud, can’t really be at the moment, he sounds much more certain of himself, the more he speaks. “You were honest. I keep trying to be with you—but-- it’s just… it’s not my strong point.” Understatement. The humor is not lost on Eames. “It was never just sex, and I deluded myself about it the entire bloody time and then ran like a little fucking girl and bollocksed it all up, predictably. I don’t see how any blame can be assigned to you, nor do I see how you’re pathetic, so—so stop it. No one gets to insult you apart from me.”

Arthur's brain appears to pause after Eames finishes this little speech, and for a few very long moments, he has no idea how to respond. In the back of his mind, he considers something along the lines of being allowed to insult himself if he wants, as well as the all purpose 'oh.' But none of that makes it to the forefront, and what does eventually come out is very different.

"Why?" he asks suddenly, turning to stare at Eames, who for once is already looking at him. "Why'd you run, then? Why did you go?" He huffs a little. "Maybe you didn't bollocks it up, we're here, I clearly don't want it to be fucked up either, but you have to fucking tell me what the hell you ran for."

Because if it wasn't Arthur fucking it up, if it wasn't because he had no interest in that sort of thing with Arthur, then... he has to know. There has to be a reason, unless it was just... fear. That... would be worse, he thinks. But also somehow better. If Eames had run because he was scared, then that's... not unfixable.

Visibly derailed, Eames stares back at Arthur for a long moment, wavering. Frantically trying to come up with a response that makes sense, because he has been asking himself this same question since—since last night, he supposes, which isn’t very long actually. But he doesn’t _know_ , he doesn’t _know_ why he did, he’s not even sure he had anything to do with it. And Eames knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up but Arthur had just said maybe he didn’t bollocks it up, but it hinges on this, of course it hinges on this.

Wildly, Eames wracks his brain for some semblance of an explanation that makes sense, because “I don’t know,” isn’t going to cut it. And he has to cut it. He has to try to make sense because if he doesn’t make sense that’ll be worse than not answering at all.

He shakes his head, almost frantically, barely keeping from looking wild and panicked as he does it, but his eyes slide away from Arthur’s. He can’t keep holding his gaze, he was never good at that. “I panicked,” he says, which he thinks is obvious. Eames swallows. “I panicked, and I didn’t know what to do, and so I left, because that’s—that’s just what happens. I don’t know. I don’t know, Arthur. I panicked, and then I was gone and--” And then it was weeks later and of course. Of course this isn’t going to make any sense. It’s Eames’ turn to drag a hand over his face. He wants to be able to explain. He does. He just… he just can’t.

Arthur's hand grabs his, pulling it away from his face; that gets Eames' attention again, but the point man doesn't look angry or frustrated. Just... calm. Measuring. He doesn't let go of Eames' hand, either, and slowly, he nods. "Okay."

He swallows. "Okay. You panicked. I can understand that." There's more to it; he's not stupid, but this situation is familiar in a way he can't place. He doesn't lose the calm, and he tightens his fingers around Eames', trying to be reassuring. "It's... it's okay." Those words come unbidden, but he realizes once he says them that they're the truth. He's not angry anymore. There's something wrong, here, with Eames, something that's more than his panicking at Arthur's revelation in Kiev, but hell if he's going to get whatever it is out of the forger right now, and the man looks bad off enough that there's no way he's going to push, not right now.

 “It is,” Eames repeats, and it’s obviously a question, but he’s so startled that it comes out almost flat. He finds himself, in a very uncommon sort of fashion, staring directly at Arthur and looking at him a bit as though you’d imagine someone would stare at a mythical creature. Disbelief tinged with a bit of awe. It’s very obvious that he hadn’t expected this reaction. On the other hand, he’s been expecting to be hit since the moment he saw Arthur here, so perhaps going by his expectations isn’t the best tactic.

In the same way that no one had ever said something like Arthur had said to him in Kiev, no one has ever come after him before. No one has ever caught him at a moment like this, though they’re less rare than Eames would ever admit. And no one has ever forgiven him for such obnoxious behavior. Nor has he ever felt the need to _explain_ his obnoxious behavior. Eames is just this side of shocked, again, but luckily, it doesn’t make him want to flee.

Actually, it’s made him kind of pathetically hopeful, disregarding the fact that he knows—he _knows_ this can’t end well, for the same reasons he could never explain himself fully to Arthur. But he just… he doesn’t want to think about that now. If he’s going to delude himself, can’t he delude himself into thinking he might be able to have Arthur? Unbidden, his fingers return Arthur’s grip. He seems to have made up his mind about that without meaning to. “I very much don’t deserve you in any fashion,” he points out, fairly matter of fact about it. And then, before he can stop himself, “But I think I might love you anyway.”

Arthur had already been opening his mouth to inform Eames, not nearly so nicely, that he's an idiot, of course he does deserve him, but that stops him in his tracks. His mouth drops open slightly, and his eyes widen. His brain actually stops for a minute, because that is one thing he had never expected to hear from Eames. Not once. Not after Kiev. Not after he's spent weeks convincing himself that he'd fucked up, that Eames wouldn't feel that way about him, that he's a moron who let himself fall way too hard too fast...

Asking something stupid like 'You do?' would be ridiculous, and so he doesn't, once his brain begins to function again. What he does do is stare. For at least a minute. And then he finally reacts, and drops Eames' hand very quickly.

Of course, the forger isn't given time to react to that, because Arthur suddenly has his arms around him, and is holding on tightly enough that he may be attempting to suffocate the other man. His eyes are still wide as he stares over Eames' shoulder, having a small panic attack as Eames doesn't hug him back, obviously in purely understandable shock of his own.

Eames isn’t really sure what he’d been expecting, after that. Probably nothing at all, actually, because he hadn’t really intended to say that. He’d just done it, because- because, fuck it, he knew he would never be able to, later, and—and—he’d decided that even though he doesn’t know… even though he can’t prove whether or not this is _real_ or… just because he’s sure this is still completely destined for disaster, it’s… he still is pretty sure that’s what he feels, even if it’s not real, and… and Arthur should know.

Maybe it’s selfish, to hope and let himself… he doesn’t know. Right now, he doesn’t care. Also, he can’t breathe.

It’s slow going, but Eames finally breaks out of his shock enough to return Arthur’s grip, somehow without meaning to ending up with his face buried in the other man’s shoulder. It kind of hurts his hand to hold on to Arthur so tightly, but it’s okay, the pain is grounding, in a way, like Arthur, and Eames decides quite promptly that he is probably not going to ever let go. He’ll stay right here all day.

Except, maybe, he decides a few moments later, for one thing. “Arthur,” he mumbles into the point man’s shoulder, “I just spent all day vomiting. Loosening your grip a little would be much appreciated.”

Startled, Arthur blinks and then loosens his arms a bit immediately, turning a bit red. It's a relief, at least, that Eames can't see that, even though he can undoubtedly feel Arthur's skin heating up. Oh well, though; nothing he can do about that. He just smiles a little, lopsidedly, because Eames' face is buried in his shoulder, and lets his chin rest on Eames' shoulder in turn.

He's not sure how long they sit there, but eventually they do break apart, at least part of the way. Arthur sits back on the couch, tugging at Eames to sit back with him... but then pausing, visibly hesitant. This was where they had problems before. He doesn't want to screw anything up now.

Equally worried, Eames nevertheless takes the first tug at him for what it is, allowing himself to be pulled after Arthur even after he pauses. He’s half afraid to let go of Arthur, because… well, Eames hasn’t quite convinced himself that this isn’t a dream or a hallucination. He doesn’t understand how Arthur could tell him it’s okay, how Arthur could have wanted him in the first place. But he doesn’t want to double check that this is reality, because for once, he doesn’t want to know.

And yes, he is still bloody terrified, he is still confused, and he is still completely bollocksed up in ways he doesn’t even really understand. But… it doesn’t seem so bad, right now. Aside from the headache, that still seems pretty bad. And he still feels rough around the edges, yeah. But it feels like it’s going to get better. He’ll… he’ll try to… he doesn’t know. Be normal. He wants to be normal for Arthur. He’s just terrified that won’t last, even if he wants it to, that he won’t get a choice in the matter.

“I’m going to pass out soon,” he informs Arthur regretfully after hesitating… and then leaning on him, eyes closing of their own accord. “Thought you ought to know. Losing battle. Like the crackers.” And the mirror. Actually, he might have won that battle, aside from the bad luck.

"Ah," Arthur says succinctly, not bothering with further agreement. He does lean his head down against Eames', though, reaching for the remote and turning on the television. It goes immediately to the Canadian soap opera channel, and he raises a brow, looking down at Eames, but no comments are forthcoming.

Figuring that it doesn't really matter, he just shrugs, tightening his arm around the other man very slightly. "I'll be here."

That, he realizes, has more weight than he'd realized, and when he both hears and feels Eames' breathing evening out, he doesn't move for a good while, staring at the soap opera until his stomach lets him know that he, at least, does need to eat something soon. He lays Eames back down at one end of the couch, making sure he has a pillow, and then digs around in the fridge until he finds some leftover pizza that looks more or less fresh. Actual food will definitely need to be happening, later.

Eames wakes up several hours later to… ah. Soap opera. The name of this one isn’t forthcoming, half awake; they all sort of blur together, and Eames only gives it a moment’s thought before he’s suddnely much more busy concentrating on the fact that he seems to be sleeping _next_ to someone. One eye opens, finds that the light from the television and lamps no longer seems to be an agent of his destruction, that it’s dark outside, and that Arthur is right there.

Earlier comes back to him in a flood, and a second eye opens after a moment, when he recalls Arthur saying… he’d be here. And here he is. Eames cranes his head around to look up at the other man, and finds himself feeling a strange mixture of relief, tentative happiness, guilt, and terror. He shoves the terror away violently and eyes Arthur for a moment.

He feels much more human, now, can finally think properly again, but that isn’t enough to convince him to sit up. Instead he just eyes Arthur from where he’s sitting. “The blond bloke is triplets.”

"Really?" Arthur yawns, stretches a little, then settles down next to Eames again, looking quite content. "I thought it was just twins, they haven't shown the third one yet."

He yawns again, glancing down at Eames, and then rubs a hand over his face; he'd been resisting the call of sleep, himself, and he knows he's just exhausted from driving, and then from this emotional whatever-the-hell-it-is being straightened out. He's pretty sure getting up and moving around will wake him up, but he doesn't have the willpower to get up, yet.

"I'm not sure anything else in your fridge is edible right now," he says after a moment. "I ate your pizza. Not the one growing green stuff."

 “Which?” Eames asks, adding in a small smile for effect. It isn’t quite up to par, but he’s tired and hungover, and… well, he tried.

Arthur was right, early; the place is a sty. It’s awful. Eames will probably actually clean it up, later. But not right now. Right now he needs to recover. Also to convince himself that he’s not dreaming. And… well. A lot of recovering. Multiple types of recovery seem to be necessary. Eames is content to take his time, because, well, he might’ve been here for weeks but… well.

“I really will clean,” he says after a moment. “Maybe after a rematch with the crackers.”

"I'll help," Arthur offers drowsily. "After I eat something, maybe." Those crackers are actually looking appetizing now, considering the fact that all he's had were two slices of pizza and it's definitely into the evening now.

But he wouldn't mind helping to clean, has never minded cleaning before. He sees no reason why he can't dump things into a trash bag, although there will need to be some necessary ribbing, of course. Can't let Eames get away without that. "Provided you can supply me with a biohazard suit."

That gets an amused sort of noise out of Eames as he forces himself into a seated position. Can’t stay where he was or he’d have ended up falling asleep again, and that would also mean that he hadn’t eaten all day. Which wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing has happened during a hangover, but for some reason he is very stuck on the fact that Arthur had told him to eat and he hadn’t managed. He’s very determined to eat at least one bloody cracker.

He doesn’t even know where the crackers came from. They must have been here before he showed up, because he did not buy them. Hopefully they’re not four years old. Even if they are, Eames is pretty sure it won’t matter. His only interest in food right now is due to the knowledge that he has to eat. Hunger hasn’t quite hit him yet.

“I’m fresh out,” he says after a moment, picking up the box again. “Sorry.” This time he makes it to opening the box and staring inside of it. Several moments of staring results in his opening the little bag inside and then staring at a single cracker. There is really just a lot of staring going on, at least until he finally sucks it up and eats the damn thing. It looks vaguely painful, but at least he doesn’t immediately vomit the thing back up. Of course that appears to be it for now, because the box is immediately put back down. “Sweet victory. You don’t have to help. It’s, ah… not as bad as it looks,” this of course comes out half a question because it’s probably worse than it looks, and there’s really no covering up that fact. But the truth is, Arthur already cleaned up after him once and that is quite enough for Eames.

Arthur snorts at that, rolling his eyes. Not as bad as it looks. Oh, right. He's pretty sure this place is actually a health hazard. The fridge at the very least. And a ton of the empty beer and liquor bottles littering the counter, coffee table, and other flat surfaces are probably growing moldy. He hadn't wanted to look that closely.

"I can help," he say, nodding slightly and not fighting his smile. He pats Eames' shoulder. "Congratulations on eating." He figures the hangover is well on its way to mending, then, and soon enough the forger will be ravenous, which means pizza or the diner he'd passed on his way in.

“Why, thank you,” Eames says, putting on his most self-satisfied face for a moment, which is certainly an improvement. He doesn’t think it has much to do with the cracker, but he does feel rather improved. It probably has more to do with the nap. And what had happened before the nap. Maybe also that he hasn’t vomited in several hours. “I consider it a great personal victory.”

  
It takes some work, but Eames finally convinces himself to leave the couch and stands, wandering in the general direction of the kitchen to look for garbage bags. They have to be in there somewhere. He doesn’t seem to have checked prior to now. In fact he seems to have used the trash until it was past overflowing and then just… stopped using the trash can at all. Lovely.

He does find an entire unopened box of trash bags. That’s something, at least. Now… to the fridge, he supposes. He can at least spare Arthur the worst of it. Eames just hopes there’s nothing to bother his poor stomach, but then, he seems to have survived in close proximity to this mess for weeks. He should be all right.

Arthur makes no move to help him with the biohazard that is that refrigerator, although he does think he might take it upon himself to Lysol the thing, once Eames has cleaned it out. Otherwise, he's pretty sure he'd be far too nervous to put any actual food in there and be willing to eat it later.

He does get up and take another trash bag, beginning to fill it with the empty bottles scattered around the house. He'll leave the food remains for Eames, but he can handle the recycling. It actually fills the entire trash bag, which is fairly impressive but makes him cringe for the forger's poor liver. Still, the rooms do look better once all of the food and bottles are cleared away. He admits to being a bit grossed out by the empty bottles on the back of the toilet.

"Hell of a lot better," he says, looking around the living room with raised brows. Startlingly, once all of the trash had been removed, there had suddenly... been almost nothing about. The remote, a TV Guide on the coffee table... and nothing else, he realizes. "Did you do anything besides watch TV and drink for three weeks?"

“You underestimate the entertainment value of _Days of Our Lives_ , pet,” Eames says almost automatically, a very standard Eames-esque response. He pauses, then, forces himself not to eye Arthur as he realizes he’d reverted back to pet names. He isn’t suddenly decked or shot, so that’s a good sign. At least, he hopes so.

Eames resumes inspecting the marks the bottles he’d left on a shelf seem to have left, frowning a bit. He could put something over that. They’d never notice. There’s no way he’s getting the deposit back already, what with the mirror. That’s all right. He doesn’t mind leaving before they notice, just would rather avoid the possible legal issues that could ensue if they decided to attempt to extort money from him. Good luck on that once he’s gone, since the name he’d given them is, of course, a ghost.

Resolving to do something about it later, as per most things he’d spotted, Eames turns back to face Arthur. Arthur does not look particularly pleased, in an amazing display of not actually appearing displeased while radiating displeasure. “I’ve been lying low. Couldn‘t exactly hold a house party.”

"You had a party of one," Arthur counters, displeasure melting a little. He shakes his head, sighing a bit, and sets the plastic bag next to the door. It rests against the wall with a loud series of clinks.

Quite the party. He tries not to think about that, mostly because these past few weeks clearly haven't gone well for either of them. But he's not going to push the issue, not now that they've sorted things out at least for a while. And he doesn't miss Eames' hesitation after he uses the pet name, but the point man waits a few minutes, lets the other man think he'd gotten away with it... and then adds, "Darling." With his very not-British, mild voice. And he may be grinning just a little.

Eames turns, eyeing him… and then can’t help but flash his usual grin. Maybe he shouldn’t be pleased to hear the retort, maybe it’s a little odd, but that’s okay with Eames. Arthur protesting pet names is normal. Eames could tell the difference between harassment and actual displeasure, or at least he likes to think he could.

He shakes his head, amused and refusing to let it get to him in the manner in which would be expected. Except the way it gets to him is exactly the way _Arthur_ would expect. Eames sighs a bit, dramatically. “You can’t seem to say it properly.” But even so, he doesn’t mind being called Arthur’s darling. Which would be why he’s still grinning.

One brow reaching skyward, Arthur eyes Eames. "Can't I?"

He turns back to the bag, nudging it with his foot until it's no longer in danger of tipping over, and then rubs the back of his neck, looking like he's not quite sure what to do, how to respond to that. "Huh. Maybe I need another lesson." And his eyes definitely aren't smiling. Certainly not.

The smile that really wants to take over Eames’ face is very difficult to fight. He manages, barely. Arthur knows very well that he’s fighting a smile, but appearances still have to be kept. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, Eames appears to consider this, despite the fact that he remembers exactly how the _last_ lesson had gone. It might have been in a dream, yes, but Eames remembers. Very clearly.

“I think you’re right,” Eames agrees after a moment. It is much more difficult to hide the smile, now. He takes the necessary few steps to cover the distance between them until he’s standing next to the other man, but not touching yet. Can’t give in _that_ easily. Not that he thinks he’s fooling anyone. Really, he’s just understandably a bit tentative. “It’s the r you have trouble with. That‘s all in the tongue, you know.”

"Is it." Arthur looks over, and his other brow goes up as though he's startled. This information appears to be completely new to him. "And here I always thought it was about the vibration."

Eames isn't touching him yet, which is unusual but probably not surprising; still, he doesn't like this new shyness. So he takes the half-step closer, putting them very close. One shift forward from Eames will have them in contact. "I guess my tongue needs some work." Now he's smirking. He really can't help it. It's the teenaged boy in him, still.

That loses the battle; Eames’ grin appears in a flash after he spots Arthur’s smirk, and he doesn’t bother fighting it off. Arthur’s tongue needing some work… that sounds very promising. Very promising, indeed. Eames finds himself hoping Arthur never learns to pronounce the word properly if that means more practice for him.

“I suppose so,” he says quietly, voice slightly lower than he’d intended. He’s already mid-closing the distance between them when he adds in what is very nearly a purr, “Let me help with that.” And then, before Arthur can get any more quips in, Eames has closed the distance between them, kissing him with the very strong desire to give the other man’s tongue a workout. The arm not sporting a wounded hand snakes around Arthur’s middle to keep him from going anywhere, and maybe to hide his relief, a tension he didn’t know had been there leaving the moment they touch, replaced by a sincere desire to get Arthur out of those clothes as soon as possible.

Needless to say, he doesn't have to try very hard to accomplish that goal, although Arthur makes a point to relieve him of his own clothes, as well, and somehow they do manage to make it up the stairs again. Mostly out of self-preservation on the point man's part; he has no desire to lie down on that carpet before it's cleaned. There are still spots of blood near the door, where he'd found Eames lying that morning.

It's almost midnight by the time they've both recovered, Arthur staring up at the ceiling and debating the merits of sleep over more food, with Eames sprawled half on top of him. "Did you hit the hungry point yet?" he asks sleepily. Pizza. They could probably still order more pizza; he'd pay a mother-fucking huge tip.

 “What?” Eames mumbles into the pillow, where he had been quite content to bury his entire face and consider sleep, despite the fact that he’d napped earlier. His nap had been on the couch, though, and he’d been clothed and sadly so had Arthur and this is just much better all around.

So not surprisingly, in a sleepy, content sort of state, it takes his brain a long time to process actual speech. His answer is slow in coming, but he does understand Arthur’s question eventually. Food. Is he hungry? “No…” he trails off, uncertain, reconsiders, and then seems to change his mind. He appears to have answered without actually considering the question at all. He’d just assumed he wasn’t hungry. But now that he thinks about it, he’s bloody starving. “…yes. There‘s no food. I‘m not moving.” The crackers are so far away.

Muttering under his breath, Arthur twists around until he can reach over the side of the bed, fishing for his phone in his pants pocket, where it is, as always. He turns it on and searches for the nearest pizza place, his fingers skimming over the screen, and then puts it up to his ear. "Hi, yeah, I need a pizza. Yeah, I know you're closed. I'll pay you two hundred bucks if you get it here."

Two minutes later, he hangs up, looking satisfied. "People are predictable." Not that he's complaining; it makes his job a hell of a lot easier. And predictable people make for predictable subconsciouses. "Present company excepted, of course. They said twenty minutes."

Eames smiles into the pillow, then turns his head to eye a smug-looking Arthur, and is a bit distressed that smug Arthur is quite attractive. It’s awful, really. But has always been true. Of course, all types of Arthur are attractive. But he doesn’t want to encourage this. Or he wouldn’t. That’s the thing. Oh, well. He did manage to get pizza; Eames won’t complain about that, despite the fact that that seems to have been the only thing he’s eaten the entire time he’s been here.

And he supposes that in this case, the man is quite correct. People are very predictable. And as for him… well. “You say the sweetest things, darling.”

Arthur's admittedly smug smirk turns into much more of a smile, hearing that particular endearment. It only grows wider, and he can't seem to stifle it (may not be trying very hard) as he forces an eye roll. "I'm not sweet." But he doesn't dispute any other assertions.

He turns his head to stare at Eames, face still hidden in the pillow. Chuckling quietly, he lifts his head enough that he can kiss the other man's shoulder, conveniently located, and then bite down gently. Very gently, though- it's a love bite, nothing more.

This gets a low, pleased sort of noise out of Eames, his loose grip on the point man’s middle tightening a bit. He still seems to be refusing to move his head, as well as the rest of him, because the rest of him is half draped over Arthur… and if he doesn’t move, Arthur can’t move without a fight . And that is all quite fine with Eames. He has no desire to move until the pizza gets there, and would in fact be perfectly fine answering the door naked if it means he can lie here longer.

He doesn’t argue with Arthur, but then, Arthur knows quite well that arguing with Eames about endearments or such things as referring to him in any manner as “sweet” are useless. Beyond useless, actually, into hindering Arthur’s progress by making Eames use said words to describe him more often.

“If I get the pizza when it comes, can you be persuaded to remain at least partially unclothed?” he asks after a moment, grinning into the pillow.

That gets Arthur chuckling, and he tightens his own arm around the other man. "I think I could manage that. My wallet's in my pants." Not that it really matters, since they both have cash, but he's the one who called in the order. "As long as you put pants on before you go."

That earns him a whining noise, and he rolls his eyes. "I'll take them off of you again when you get back with the food." And right now, he definitely thinks he might be able to eat in bed. If it means they can stay naked... that sounds pretty damned perfect, actually.

Although the fact that Arthur had known to insist he put pants (he means trousers, although Eames has been dealing with Americans long enough to not snicker every time they describe trousers as pants) on before he goes is both amusing and disquieting, Eames doesn’t mind much. Especially when a bit more wheedling gets the promise of Arthur using his teeth to take said clothing _off_ of him, if he behaves. Eames promptly decides he wants to behave and stops harassing the other man for the whole five minutes until the doorbell rings.

Trousers on, door answered, pizza delivery boy severely overpaid: mission accomplished, and Eames reappears, pizza box in hand, to find Arthur still fully unclothed. Unsurprisingly, he personally is still lacking anything on his upper half or socks or shoes of any kind (although he does still seem to be wearing his watch), but none of that was stipulated in the agreement. Eames thinks he behaved quite well.

Which would be why the first thing he announces is, “I feel vastly overdressed.”

Arthur chuckles, leaning up and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, taking the box from the forger and setting it aside. Eames doesn't move, just smirking, and the point man rolls his eyes a little. He's amused as hell, though, and he leans in, biting down on the trouser hook and undoing it, unzipping them with surprising ease. They're loose enough that they tumble down, and Arthur does spare a moment to realize that Eames had not put on any sort of underwear, which could have been potentially rather painful.

Still, though, task accomplished, and he shifts back on the bed to make room, still smirking. Eames is staring down at him, and looks both startled and rather aroused; he grins. "What, you think you're the first person I've done that to?" Pah. "Granted, that's the first time I've tried it sober. Surprisingly easier."

Although Eames suspects that this knowledge should probably cause a bout of jealousy, it is instead (coupled with what Arthur had just done) possibly the most amazingly hot thing Eames has ever heard. Not for the first time, he notes that his feelings on these sorts of things are not standard, and is thrilled that that is so, because it frees him up to be severely grateful to whoever Arthur had done that to for allowing him the practice, and giving Eames the mental picture.

“You are full of wonderful surprises, Arthur dear,” Eames says, not even fighting the implied suggestion that he sit down, although he _does_ have to fight the _very_ strong desire to immediately tackle Arthur and damn the food. “I’ll admit I find my interest in pizza waning.” In accordance with other things doing the very opposite of waning.

Arthur scowls a bit. "Mine isn't," he counters, although that argument is only... partially true. Mostly true. Well, he is hungry, but now Eames is naked again, and he, Arthur, is also still naked, which means that his conflicted interest is rather obvious to the other man at the moment.

He rolls his eyes up at the forger. "I guess we can always reheat it." Eames still doesn't move; Arthur stares at him, eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh, am I supposed to do all the work?" He admits, he wouldn't mind being tackled, if that is indeed what Eames has in mind...

Eames holds up his bandaged hand and gives the other man a pathetic sort of look. “I’m injured,” he points out, and manages to keep a straight face entirely through the look Arthur sends him. Well, for a moment anyway. Then he can’t help but grin, amused. Somehow, Arthur’s expressions always get him. It’s a skill, not that he does it on purpose, because Eames is fairly certain that glares are meant to deter him instead of amuse him.

But this does have some of the intended effect, because after a moment Eames does exactly as Arthur had expected, half-tackling the other man so that he’s on top of Arthur when he allows, “In this case, I don’t mind doing some of the work.”

"Good," Arthur mutters, dragging him closer, close enough that he can kiss him rather roughly. There's very little preamble required this time, and Arthur finds himself completely uninterested in foreplay, not removing his mouth from Eames' as he grabs blindly for the bottle on the nightstand, teeth and tongue scraping the other man's.

He shoves the bottle into Eames' hand, then, figuring Eames won't mind again, even though they usually switch off. For some reason, it makes him feel better, just now, to urge the other man to take charge (not that it takes much urging, most of the time). Eames has been more tentative than Arthur has ever seen him, since he'd showed up here that morning, and Arthur would like that to be the last of that.

With this in mind, he makes a point to bite down hard, hands clenching hard enough to bruise, urging reciprocation. When Eames pulls back from the kiss, Arthur raises his brows, more a dare than a challenge.

Eames raises an eyebrow in return but says nothing; frankly, even if he could think of something witty to say, he might not be able to get it out. He’s already breathing hard, which would be pathetic if not for the fact that Arthur had taken his trousers off of him with his teeth. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, Eames decides to go to great lengths to make that happen again. Right now, though, he is much more focused on the present.

Predictably, this tactic works very well on Eames, who has never been one to turn down a dare, at least not _this_ sort of dare. So he begins the mildly difficult task of opening the bottle Arthur had shoved at him while the other hand grips Arthur, bites happily returned and soon enough, tentativeness entirely forgotten.

Needless to say, Eames does his very best to rise to the challenge. And also needless to say, by the time they’re finished, the pizza is definitely cold.

Arthur does insist on putting on pants to go stick the pizza in the oven to warm it up; he steals the same pair he'd borrowed before, not particularly wanting to go near that hot a surface with everything on display, as it were, and shuts the oven, straightening with a bit of a wince.

Not a displeased one, though. He looks entirely happy with himself, actually, and more than a bit smug; really, there's something to be said about being shoved face first into a pillow, sometimes. Definitely something there.

He hears Eames come down the stairs behind him, and smiles slightly, not moving from where he's leaning against the stove, fussing with the temperature. There's a pause, and then arms come around his middle, and his smile widens. It does not escape him that he would be completely not okay with this kind of touching from ANYONE else; he doesn't even tense, and has to pause for a moment before he says anything, appreciating exactly how far he's come in just a few months.

"Five minutes or so," he says finally, leaning back against Eames quite comfortably.

Also very pleased with himself- for many reasons, at the moment- Eames just grins to himself for a moment before leaning his head on Arthur’s shoulder. He is now officially starving, after that, but he is also thoroughly convinced that it was quite worth it. He’s not certain anything could have been _more_ worthwhile, come to think of it… and of course, now he feels very accomplished.

The feeling is only compounded by the fact that Arthur allowed him to walk up behind him and put his arms around him. Not only allowed, but he’s smiling. Eames can see that he is, because he’s eyeing the stove over the other man’s shoulder. Arthur is taller than he is, but not by enough that he can’t see over his shoulder, thank god, that would be obnoxiously tall. Or he’d be obnoxiously short…

“I have definitely hit the hungry point now,” Eames admits quietly after a moment, and uses speaking as an excuse to bite gently at the other man’s bare shoulder.

"Have you," Arthur says dryly, but the smile doesn't fade. "I think you can keep from cannibalizing me for five minutes." He also almost points out, rather petulantly, that he's been hungry longer, but in the end refrains. He's not five, and neither is Eames, no matter how often the forger acts as though he never matured past that age.

He leans back a little further, makes a discovery, and one brow goes up. "I guess you're fully recovered, then."

Eames’ grin turns into a smirk. “Seems so,” he says, regretfully giving up on biting Arthur for now, because this time they _have_ to eat, or they’re both going to die of starvation via over-sexing. Not that that would be a bad way to go, actually, now that Eames thinks on it…

But no. He’d rather not die at all, and as such, contents himself with lazily holding on to Arthur for now. There will be time later. At least, he hopes so… Eames is trying not to worry about the future any more than he worries about the past, right now. That’s not something he usually does, worries about the future (any more than where his next paycheck will come from, of course), and he doesn’t mean to start now. Besides, it seems… it seems promising.

“I’m sure I can keep from cannibalizing you for five minutes,” he agrees, then of course adds through a smirk, “it’s other things I’m not certain I can keep from doing to you.” He might be intent on making up for lost time, physically speaking. It certainly seems that way.

"I am very inclined to let you do those things." Arthur tries to sound composed, but the fact that his eyes are closed, not to mention the fact that his voice is rather strained, tends to give up the game. "But I need food first." He presses back against the forger. "And the lube's upstairs. _Fuck._ "

Eames' hand, apparently all on its own, has slid down over the waistband of the sweatpants. He's still sore, but that apparently doesn't matter, and he groans, knuckles going white against the counter.

Food. The timer's going to go off. The pizza will burn. Swearing quietly, he reaches down to remove Eames' hand, but it slides beneath the waistband, instead, before he can, and all he manages to do is grab hold of the other man's wrist... and then moan quietly, teeth clenched.

Grinning triumphantly at having successfully derailed the iron-willed Arthur, Eames carries on this way for a few seconds, biting at the other man’s neck and shoulder- the only places he can reach- before deciding that right in front of the oven is probably not the best place for this. And so, mainly for Arthur’s safety, he moves quickly. He lets go of Arthur just long enough to turn the other man around and half-shove him the few feet over, away from the oven and immediately press Arthur up against the counter behind him with a forceful kiss, intended to keep him from recalling that they have a time limit.

Time limits don’t bother Eames, much. It just means they’ll have to be quick about it. He has faith in their abilities, collectively.

The kiss also seems to be a distraction, because when Eames pulls back to smirk shamelessly at the other man, he has undone the trousers Arthur had insisted on putting on. Eames pauses only to assure Arthur in a low voice, “We can do without this once, pet,” and then lets the borrowed trousers fall to the floor about half a second before he follows them, landing on his knees.

The oven timer does go off at some point, but by then Arthur is in no shape to get the pizza out, his legs having given out a minute or so before. He is now sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning back against the cabinets and trying to regain the ability to think.

He does notice, after a moment, being at a good vantage point for these things, that Eames is significantly less... er... _relieved_ than he himself is at the moment. This strikes him as being rather unfair, but he doesn't comment on it right away, because a piece of pizza is suddenly held in front of his face.

He thinks he may have mumbled something that slightly resembled a thank you, but he's not sure. Either way, he takes the pizza, digging in immediately.

If he’d felt accomplished before, Eames is having trouble describing how he feels now, seeing a boneless Arthur sitting on the kitchen floor without a thought for how dirty it might be. Especially considering how he’d demanded, earlier, that they move the party upstairs for fear of catching something from the carpet in the living room. Accomplished, perhaps. He’s feeling accomplished. Maybe proud. Self-satisfied.

Well, whatever it is, his grin, though small, is quite smug. Made it in under five minutes. And now they have pizza. This day had started out so poorly, but that seems very distant now with how well it’s ending.

Not bothered by the state of the floor even slightly, Eames sits down next to Arthur on the floor to eat, waiting for the other man to recover. They finish the entire pizza in minutes. Eames, for all his imagination, can’t think of a better place to be right now than the dirty kitchen floor in the middle of nowhere, Quebec, with an Arthur who doesn‘t seem to mind Eames touching him so much, anymore, and who drives to save him from possible drunken death, even though he should be furious.

That in mind, Eames decides that he should drunk-dial Arthur more often.

Once the pizza is finished, Arthur has regained the power of coherent thought beyond that of food good, sex good, but he makes no move to get up from where he's sitting, despite how nice the bed sounds just then. He turns to look over at Eames, who looks equally reluctant to rise, and smiles slightly.

"I feel like I should be making some kind of sarcastic comment right now." He shrugs, closing his eyes. "Nothing's coming to mind."

This earns a mild chuckle out of Eames, who appreciates that sentiment, after the day he spent unable to come up with full sentences, let alone sarcastic comments. On the one hand, Arthur hasn’t even had any insane amount of alcohol to blame for this. On the other, Eames is happy to take part of the blame for Arthur’s state. The feeling of accomplishment has yet to fade.

“No need to worry, darling, I won’t tell anyone,” he assures the other man. “Although the lack does suggest that sleep might be a good idea.” Neither of them moves, although Arthur certainly does not argue with this assessment. They just sit there, mostly lacking in clothing, for another few minutes, until finally, Eames decides that it’s his turn to be mildly responsible, and levers himself to his feet with a groan of effort before reaching down to tug at Arthur.

Enough harassment will get the other man up eventually. And then to bed, because he sincerely doubts that Arthur has had much sleep, what with the drive he’d had that morning.

Arthur does give in and sway to his feet, following Eames up the stairs less than steadily, and they promptly collapse into the bed again. He'd originally intended to maybe return the favor from earlier and take care of Eames in return, but at this point it doesn't seem to be an option. He'll do it in the morning, he supposes; he doubts the forger will mind waking to _that_.

The bed is smaller, narrower than the queen-sized one they'd shared in Kiev and... most of the other places they've stayed over together, as far as he can recall, but that isn't an issue at the moment. He is perfectly content to curl up with Eames, manliness sacrificed in the face of exhaustion and a man who smells really, really good. He's passed out before he even realizes he's falling asleep, face buried in the back of Eames' neck.

Not minding this in the least, Eames stays awake only a little longer, drifting off to sleep still feeling very pleased with himself, and with Arthur, and oddly content. He doesn’t even realize that aside from passing out, this is the fastest he’s fallen asleep since he’d come here, or that his headache is completely gone. He’s far too busy being lulled to sleep by the sound of Arthur’s breathing.

Despite the fact that he hasn’t dreamt independent of a PASIV in quite some time, when Eames next wakes he spends a few confused, distantly aware moments entirely convinced that he’s dreaming. And if he is, this is a _wonderful_ dream, because-- that thought is cut short, and abruptly Eames finds that he could care less if he’s dreaming, hips arching off the bed without any input from his brain at all.

The first thing that makes it out of his mouth that morning is a breathy moan that the forger doesn’t even realize he should consider bothering to keep to himself. Somewhere in the hazy, trying-to-wake-up part of his brain, Eames realizes that Arthur is doing this and he should make some quip, but what comes out instead is another, slightly louder moan in the form of the point man‘s name. So Eames focuses instead on trying to find something to grip without ripping the sheets from the bed.

This ends up being, after a moment, Arthur's hair and his shoulders, but the point man could care less at this point. It's only a few minutes later when he crawls up Eames' body, looking entirely smug himself, now, to eye the other man's now-closed eyes and then lean in to kiss him thoroughly.

"Morning," he says, pulling back and licking his lips a little. Eames' eyes flicker open a few seconds later, and Arthur just watches him for a minute or two, amused.

Not surprisingly, it seems to be taking Eames’ mind a longer time than usual to recover, probably due to the fact that he never quite woke up. Mentally, that is. He most certainly woke up in other ways. And in fact, this is certainly the best way Eames has ever woken up. And this is including that sleepover with the twin strippers, who he does not mention at this particular moment, because he is not suicidal. This is better, anyway. If only he could wake this way every day…

Then again, if he woke this way every day, he might end up with breathing problems; he still hasn’t quite recovered. Nor does he seem able to make his mouth form actual words for a minute or two, during which he can’t seem to do much besides blink blearily at Arthur and smile.

He wants to make some comment about dreaming or something, hopefully something witty and clever. What he manages is a _very_ satisfied sounding, “G’morning, love,” and to tiredly put his arms around Arthur’s middle in order to hold on to him, bury his face in the other man‘s shoulder, close his eyes, and very seriously consider never moving again.

That gets a real, honest smile out of the point man, even if Eames can't see it at the moment; Arthur leans down to mouth at his shoulder in return. He doesn't fight the arm around his middle, either, and finally he rests his own face in Eames' neck.

"Feel free to call me that whenever." His quiet huff is more a puff of air than an audible laugh. "Except... maybe not at work. Too distracting." In a good way. A very good way. He recalls the last time Eames had used that particular pet name, and decides that being both fully awake and sober when it happens is a marked improvement.

Were he more coherent, the direction of this conversation would probably be uncomfortable enough that Eames would do his best to change the subject. Then again, were he more coherent, Eames would probably have avoided the use of that particular pet name, as he has been since the last time he used it. For obvious reasons. He doubts he’ll ever use it again without pausing at it at least a moment, to be honest. What was once just a simple endearment is not quite so uncomplicated anymore.

Right now, though, Eames is barely coherent, and happily so. Also, had Arthur just given him permission to use a pet name whenever he so desires? The vague fear that the world might be ending creeps in, only to be smote by a severe lack of giving a shit.

Eames is busy focusing on other things. “But I so enjoy distracting you at work,” he mumbles into Arthur’s shoulder in half a whine. Arthur at work is both mind-numbingly attractive in his impeccable suits and absolutely controlled manner, and mind-bogglingly easy to harass. The combination is, of course, almost irresistible to the forger.

Arthur laughs audibly this time. "I know you do." Eames' shoulder gets another sloppy half-kiss, half-bite, with a lick to make it better. This isn't sappiness on Arthur's part, he tells himself. Eames does taste good, as he'd just discovered. Tastes good all over. He can't be blamed for taking advantage of that fact, especially since he has the man so fantastically naked and in a bed with him. This experience hasn't come about often enough that he's stopped noting its significance and appreciating that. Especially since as of a day ago... a little more than a day... he hadn't thought it would ever happen again. Thought he'd lost all chance of this.

He closes his eyes, not particularly sleepy but just thinking to himself. And can't help but add, absently, an additional tease. "Incorrigible flirt." A tease and also a truth, one he knows Eames won't be insulted by.

Eames’ grin, though mostly hidden, widens just enough to become vaguely wicked. Flirt, him? And with Arthur? He supposes it’s nice of Arthur to have noticed, since he spent years doing exactly that every time he saw the man. It’s also a good thing that he seems to realize that this… well, any of this between them is absolutely not going to change that. In fact it will probably only get worse, because now Eames knows he can 1) get away with it and 2) maybe get something out of it.

“Always,” Eames agrees happily. No harm done in flirting with Arthur or with anyone else. In fact, most of the time this feature seems to have worked out in his favor. As per… right now. Well, it took a long time. But it worked, didn’t it?

Looking rather tiredly amused, now, Arthur shakes his head slightly. "If you weren't, I'd think something was seriously wrong." His tongue flicks at Eames' earlobe affectionately.

He yawns, then, and finally rolls off of the forger, stretching and sitting up. Food. They once again have none, and his stomach is rumbling violently. "I'm showering. And then I'm driving down to that diner by the highway and getting breakfast, possibly followed by food from the store."

He doesn't _invite_ Eames to join him in the shower, but he doesn't tell him _not_ to, which he knows perfectly well will be interpreted as an invitation. And frankly, right now he would not complain. He does, however, manage to slide out of the bed before he can be dragged back into it, arching a dry brow at Eames, now sprawled across the mattress, arms reaching futilely. "Too slow." His expression is still neutral, but he smirks a bit as he disappears down the stairs, knowing quite well that he'll be followed.

Sighing dramatically, Eames finally forces himself up into a seated position, frowning vaguely in the direction Arthur had disappeared. Making him get up… showers… food… who needs it? Not Eames. Eames is tiredly convinced, at the moment, that if anyone could survive on sleep and sex alone, it would be him. And Arthur. But no. No, Arthur insists upon food…

Then again, a shower isn’t a bad idea. As long as it’s a mutual shower. Predictably, it’s only a matter of time before Eames is out of bed and following Arthur down the stairs.

Showers, he decides some time later when he has, for the first time in rather a lot longer than usual, been forced into dressing, are not quite so bad. Attempting to tie one’s shoes while one hand is injured, on the other hand, is not exactly thrilling. Neither are buttons. Bloody buttons. But he _is_ rather hungry, now that he’s awake enough to think about it, and so Eames keeps the complaints to himself, because Arthur is his ride. Oh, he made a pun. Eames considers sharing said pun, but it makes no sense out of context of his mental dialogue. Oh, well.

“Were you in New York?” he asks instead, not really wanting to bring on uncomfortable conversation, but on the other hand, really rather curious. Nothing else makes much sense, though; it’s not as though he could have just driven here from London. Not in the time he seems to have done so. Although Eames has no idea when, exactly, he called Arthur. Also, he’s not sure if he’s charged his phone since. He frowns a bit, not recalling what he’d done with it, which is not surprising. “Have you seen my phone?”

"Plugged in and charging since yesterday," Arthur says over his shoulder, smoothing his tie and buttoning his waistcoat. "And yeah, I was in Manhattan. Have been since I got back from Ukraine." He huffs a little, shaking his head and eyeing his hair. Acceptable. He slips on his jacket, then the wool coat over that, and turns to find Eames still buttoning up his shirt.

He doesn't offer to help, though, busies himself with his computer bag instead. "I had enough research jobs to keep me busy. Saito pays pretty well." Disgustingly well, actually, but he's sure Eames can infer that much. He doesn't comment any further on his activities, or why he'd stayed where he'd told Eames he would be (one of the locations, anyway), but he doesn't think it needs to be delved into. They sorted that much out, and he refuses to get back into it.

He hasn't done any extractions since Miami, either, and he figures he should probably get back into the game eventually, but he's been avoiding it... he's not sure why. Jobs go to hell fairly often, it's not that element of it, but after the month he'd had in Mali... yeah, he hadn't really figured his subconscious would be up for it. He _still_ doesn't know if his subconscious will be up for it. He's still not... right, completely. Not all of his trouble sleeping over the past few weeks had been Eames-related, much as he hadn't wanted to think about it. But now that they've more or less fixed things, he doesn't have that distraction anymore.

He leads the way out to the car, climbing into the driver's seat and waiting, checking his own voicemail and email. Eames joins him a moment later, and Arthur mutters a little about the weather, cranking up the heat. "You and the fucking cold." Why not Mombasa again? Well, aside from the fact that Arthur doesn't know if he's willing to risk Kobol...

Eames rolls his eyes a bit at this. It’s not even that cold here. Not when you compare it to Kiev, anyway. He didn’t even bother closing his own coat, but then, it was difficult enough to put the shirt on without wincing. But there has to be something to complain about, he supposes. There always must be.

“You know, before all that, I was in Miami,” he points out. “Not to mention Mombasa. Spend enough time hanging about in the tropics year-round and Canada becomes a nice break at times.” And besides… it’s not Ukraine. That’s something. “Even disregarding your ambiguous status with Kobol.” Eames has certainly not forgotten the chase they gave Cobb when he appeared in Kenya.

The drive to the diner is very short; there isn’t much around here that _isn’t_ nearby, the little suburb town is so small. Perfect for hiding out, on the one hand. On the other, it does make him stand out a bit. Which would be why Eames has been affecting a nondescript American accent. Or… well, an American accent had been used and now keeping it up is mandatory. He considers warning Arthur, but decides, ultimately, that there is no fun in that.

"Saito told me he took care of that," Arthur mutters, but he doesn't push the issue any further as he pulls into the diner's parking lot. They're quiet as they go in and slide into a table, but his head snaps up from where he'd been considering the menu when he hears Eames order his drink, staring quite blatantly.

"Uh, Coke," he manages, realizing the waitress is looking at him, and then returns his glare to Eames. He understands the game. Yes, the accent makes sense here. And yes, Eames is an asshole. "Fucker."

Eames’ smile, in return, is small but beatific. A perfectly normal expression, despite the distinct lack of a perfectly normal speech pattern. And a perfectly normal reaction from Arthur, as well, which Eames must say he still finds himself quite fond of. Arthur wears the moment of surprise quite well. And then there is the glower. Ah, normalcy.

Well, except for the part where he says, “Don’t be like that,” very pitifully, instead of, “No call for verbal abuse, pet.” Sadly, such things do not go over nearly so well when spoken as though one is an American. That’s one reason Eames will always be glad he isn’t. Well, that and Nascar. “I thought about warning you. That’s progress. Sort of.”

Arthur snorts. Progress. Right. "That's not actually any better. That means it was a conscious decision not to tell me and then to be amused at my reaction." His expression is not completely aggravated, though, and he's progressed from annoyance to amusement rather quickly.

They order, Arthur going for the chicken sandwich and some soup, since that seems like a much safer choice than whatever salad they might whip up here (he's a snob and he admits it, oh well), but Eames gets some kind of burger that could easily feed him, on its own, for days. "A third of a pound?" Arthur manages weakly, staring at the menu. "That's not a meal. That's a heart attack on a plate."

Eames raises an eyebrow, looking over at Arthur, who looks somewhere between mildly ill and amazed, but not in a good way. It’s highly amusing to Eames, who could not have missed how careful Arthur is about his food intake if his life depended on it. But then, that makes perfect sense. Arthur is careful with everything. Eames, on the other hand. Well. He’s certainly careful about certain things, but not in a way that is remotely similar to Arthur.

“Only if you really enjoy a heart attack,” Eames says mildly, not really seeing the problem. Well, he sees the problem in _theory_. He just isn’t _bothered_ by the problem. He hasn’t been eating much, lately, and what he has had to eat was… pizza. That’s about it. Oh, and a cracker. “I don’t think most people do, though.”

"Then why are you _eating_ it?" Arthur asks pragmatically, still looking pained. "If you don't want a heart attack, stop eating so much cholesterol. All you've eaten for a month is pizza, and M &Ms, and drunk a hell of a lot of beer. Do you _want_ to kick it when you're fifty?"

It's a logical line of questioning, he thinks, and frankly, considering the preservatives and shit they put in almost everything today, it takes serious effort to eat well. And maybe he does have a personal stake in wanting Eames to be around a bit longer than that... but he has too much pride to take that tack in this somewhat ongoing debate.

Although it is not _strictly_ true that he hadn’t eaten anything but pizza and M &Ms in a month (there was bread, and crackers! And also he’s pretty sure he had a sandwich at one point.), Eames doesn’t bother arguing that point specifically, because the point is made even so. The rest of it, though… well. Though it is true that he doesn’t want to die when he’s fifty- far away though that may seem at the moment- Eames also doesn’t really have much stock in living very long. Not in a pessimistic sort of way; he’s just… realistic. In much the same way he is about jobs, that well-hidden streak of pragmatism beneath the constant razzle dazzle of the Eames show.

“Of course not,” he says, and then pauses, wanting to phrase this properly but also not wanting to accidentally lay off the accent. Not to mention, people may be listening, and there are some things they simply cannot discuss in public. So Eames eyes the salt and pepper on the table, thinking, and rests his non-injured hand on his shoe (reachable because he’s reclining in the booth, one leg crossed over the other) where he proceeds to tap at it restlessly.

“But think about it realistically. Take into account professional hazards. Even beyond that, I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.” He hopes not. Unlikely if he refuses to leave the little house again. But possible. Eames glances at Arthur and then over at one of the stools at the nearby counter. “And in the moment it takes for my life to flash before my eyes, I’m going to be ungodly irritated that I didn’t decide to eat a burger for fear of a heart attack that never came.” He shrugs. Long-winded way to say ‘live in the present,’ but he’s always been a bit long-winded. “There are always regrets. I’d just rather mine be enjoying myself too much, as opposed to too little.”

Arthur sees his point. It's a viewpoint he doesn't quite get, doesn't think he ever will, but that's not the point. He does understand Eames' line of thinking. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have an argument against it. "So assuming you live through all the job hazards and aren't hit by a bus or a train. Assume that, for me. If you take care of yourself in that sense, you're better able to _deal_ with said work hazards, and thus more likely to live through them." He knows Eames is physically fit. That's not his point, either. Conditioning will only get you so far if your arteries are completely clogged and you've killed your liver.

He looks very serious. "Say you make it to fifty. Considering your propensity for getting out of hazardous conditions, I have every faith that you will. You make it to fifty, and then you keel over from a heart attack, and that's it. You made it through all of that, and you lose what, twenty years, maybe, that you could've had? Twenty years in which, when you're that old, work might not be an issue anymore?" It's stupid to be pissed about this. He knows he's only using this as a convenient excuse to be upset, knows he's still a ball of stress and a day and a night of relaxation and sex are not going to make that disappear. But it's something he's also honestly concerned about, and it's not a crime to want Eames to at least see where he's coming from.

It would be ridiculous to be pissed or upset that Eames doesn't seem to care about making it to old age, when Arthur has every intention of doing so, of retiring a wealthy man and spending the rest of his days... well, he hasn't decided on what, yet, but he'll goddamn have the money to do so, and no one will be shooting at him, then. And he's always had this mental picture of doing that, and it's always been just him in that mental picture, except for maybe very recently... but any change in that seems less than likely, now. But... that doesn't really matter. They have very different lifestyles, after all.

Arthur couldn't play things fast and loose if his life depended on it, and he knows it. If he did, things would come crashing down around his head again and that is never pleasant. He hates shooting his way out of situations, and that, he has no doubt, would be the inevitable conclusion. Someone has to always be thinking a few steps ahead.

Eames is quiet for a moment, after that, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye. The point man seems disproportionately upset over this issue, and Eames… isn’t sure he quite understands why. Obviously this goes beyond the one burger, he understands that they’ve moved beyond that point just now. And Eames understands Arthur’s point, too, accepts that there are certain things about his lifestyle that are almost needlessly reckless… no, not reckless, exactly, but irresponsible, not forward thinking in the manner Arthur lives his life.

Is that what this has moved along to? His entire lifestyle? What is he expected to do about that? He’s built an entire life on a certain way of thinking, a certain oddly strict adherence to personal freedom. He has his systems of doing things, his businesslike way of going about work, his idiosyncrasies, but when it comes down to it, Eames doesn’t even always follow his _own_ rules. Changing all of that would be… changing him entirely. In such a literal, basic sense that Eames is absolutely certain Arthur has no idea what his argument implies.

“Maybe I’m overly pessimistic,” he allows, accent still in place and hand moving to fiddle with the other, bandaged, hand. Better that than his totem, in this public place where he is lying low. “I always assumed something would do me in before not being able to work became an issue. Retirement is an altogether frightening concept. My work is very defining. I don’t know who I’d be without it.” Surely that Arthur can understand. But it also a bit too close to a conversation Eames doesn’t want to be having, so he carries on. “Don’t misunderstand. I don’t want to die before my time. I understand what you’re saying. But I’d rather not waste away, either.” He eyes Arthur. “Do you see me wasting away, doing nothing? If I live to be seventy, I want to be able to go to the pyramids or the Grand Canyon on a whim. And, too, it is very true that you are only young once. I know I can do these things now. Maybe I’m just getting it all out of the way in case I can’t manage later.” He’s already sadly well on his way to not being young anymore.

Unsure of how to respond to that, at least, without resorting to petty insults like _you're a moron_ and _you're such an idiot_ , Arthur just tilts his head slightly, nodding. Pushing this any further would be unfair to Eames, because Arthur is for one thing pretty damn sure that it's not his business, and for another also pretty sure that he's projecting a bit. Maybe more than a bit. The petty insults would be extremely unfair, as Eames' life is his own business, and Arthur has no wish to fuck up the pleasantness they've had since they woke up. Well, pleasant to them, and their definition is the one that matters, right?

"I did always want to see the Pyramids up close," he offers as a peace offering, trying to pull himself out of whatever angry funk is threatening to drag him down again. He can almost feel the sliding sensation.

His business trips to Cairo are somehow never relaxing enough for him to do any sight-seeing. Funny, that. "Luxor, too. The Grand Canyon's impressive, I drove past it once." And by past it he means along the highway on the edge. He arches a brow. "I am not riding a donkey down any little path into the canyon." He's just getting that out of the way now.

Accepting the subject change very gratefully, Eames goes right along with this. And he would have done so without mention of the donkey thing, which has him blinking across the table at the other man, actually looking directly at him. What an odd thing to refuse to do. Of course, his refusal somehow means that Eames now is very interested in doing exactly that.

“Why not?” he asks. That’s the whole point of the Grand Canyon. That’s just what you do. Eames is fairly certain they don’t let you rappel down there, nor hang-glide. It seems to be pretty much just donkey rides. “What’s wrong with donkeys?”

"They're dirty," Arthur mutters. He's an idiot for mentioning it, but at least the subject is changed. And they do do best when they bicker. "I hate dirt. In case you haven't noticed." He thinks that much may have been made clear at some point.

Their food arrives then, pausing Eames' comeback for at least a minute or so, and Arthur spends the pause being a bit grateful for his own food; he really is hungry, and they'd gotten here way too late for breakfast, to his chagrin. But the day before had fucked up his inner clock entirely, and for once he isn't completely pissed about that. It hadn't been so bad.

He sneaks a glance at Eames; the forger's attention is on his burger, and so he misses it. Arthur is grateful for that much, returning his attention to his own food but shifting his foot forward a bit under the table, nudging the other man's. His expression is the picture of innocence when Eames does look up.

Eames raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing about this. Although conversations of too deeply emotional a nature seem to be problematic for the forger, he has been entirely content to spend all of his time with the other man. Lying low is suddenly not so terrible. Everything in general is suddenly not so terrible, after the day before. Arthur’s effect on the situation is, in many ways, downright astounding.

Of course, harassment isn’t likely to end. But then, that seems to be Eames’ favorite way of displaying affection, closely followed by obnoxious pet names. Despite devouring about a third of the burger in record time, Eames hasn’t forgotten the conversation. “What if it was an amazingly clean donkey?”

Arthur snorts, waiting until he chews and swallows to reply. "Still too dirty. It's the middle of a desert, and I have spent too much f--" He glances around, sees the little girl and older woman sitting behind them. "Too much time in a desert to want to be around dust and sand, even forty years from now."

His worry for the little girl is endearing, but Arthur merely returns to his sandwich, oblivious to the rather sweet oddity of the man one particular (former) colleague had named "a cold-blooded fucking barracuda" not wanting to swear in front of a child.

It’s a lucky thing he’s looking at his sandwich, too, because he misses the look on Eames’ face as the forger stares at him from across the table, charmed for perhaps the forty millionth time by the fact that Arthur had just paused mid-sentence and kept from swearing due to the little girl nearby. Eames, unlike Arthur, is not oblivious to the odd sweetness of what he’d just done, but he’s also not fool enough to mention it. So he just watches Arthur in silence for a moment, a smile playing at his lips until he stifles it, returning his attention to his own food to avoid explaining his sudden pleasant silence.

Eames lets the moment go on for a little longer, but in the end, adorableness can only stop the forger for so long. “So a hazmat suit for you both, then, is what I’m taking away from this.”

Arthur's shoulders shake slightly, and he sets down the sandwich, trying his damnedest not to laugh. He can't help the grin that escapes at that mental image, though, and he doesn't dare take a sip of his drink for fear he'd spit it right back out at Eames.

"Where... the... where would you find a hazmat suit for a donkey?" he chokes, before giving in and laughing. Hard.

Ridiculously pleased with himself for making Arthur laugh, Eames spends a moment grinning widely and watching the other man before giving in and laughing himself. That… is a good question. He didn’t think about where he would find a hazmat suit for a donkey. He was just looking for solutions to this problem. It’s not his fault he tends to look… out of the box. Very far out of the box. He might have lost sight of the box a little.

When he finally calms down a bit (although he’s still grinning like a lunatic), Eames shrugs, and fights to recall that he is being American right now. “No idea. But now it’s a challenge. Check back in forty years.”

Shaking his head, Arthur feels recovered enough to try a drink, but he doesn't dare try a verbal reply to that. Forty years. _Long_ term. There's a topic he hadn't dared touch with a twenty-foot pole; they haven't even gotten to the part where they figure out what the hell this _is_ between them.

Well, feelings, yeah, obviously, those have been covered. But he doesn't know what Eames wants. He's not sure what he himself wants from all of this. So... going anywhere near agreeing that they'll still be... doing this, or something else, in some way still linked in forty years is a bad idea, despite the fact that it's not actually an unpleasant supposition.

Now pondering the idea of a hazmat suit for a donkey and who he would have to contact to get this done, Eames spends a moment in silence, absolutely not aware of the fact that he had just suggested that he would still be... with Arthur in one form or another in forty years (provided he is not hit by a bus). Or if he does, he doesn't seem to mind, or to feel the need to elaborate. That, at least, is not terribly surprising.

"If I showed up tomorrow with a hazmat suit for a donkey, you know you'd be required to give it a shot," he says after a moment. "It would be criminal not to."

"You know, if you show up with a hazmat suit for a donkey, I won't even argue." Arthur is trying very hard to quiet his own laughter, his own smile, which is somehow more telling even than the laughter, because he can't seem to make it go away...

The rest of the meal continues on in this vein, and they split the bill, dropping bills onto the table and wandering out. Arthur realizes, then, as he's heading for the grocery store, that there's another potentially awkward topic coming up. "How much longer are you planning on staying here?" _And how long, exactly, do you want me to stay?_ The second question just feels vaguely... embarrassing to ask, and so he doesn't, not yet.

Having been lounging in the passenger seat already, Eames doesn't take his eyes away from the window as he considers this question. How long was he planning on staying? Easy enough, he wasn't. Initially, he supposes, the general idea was to stay until he felt that working again was safe enough. But he's been here three weeks or so, and it's definitely safe, now. He hasn't had word of one thing going wrong in the aftermath of the Kiev job.

But now it's not just about that, is it? Things change, and now it's only been a day or so that he's had to recover. Is it really time to go back to work? Eames isn't sure, and that uncertainty only proves that it might not be. He can't do a job properly if he's uncertain of himself. There are some risks he just won't take.

"I have the place for another week," he finally decides on, which is a very indirect way to answer that question. On the bright side, he's dropped the American accent. "I suppose if I don't have somewhere to be by then I ought to lie less low elsewhere."

Arthur nods, pulling into the grocery store and cutting the engine. He guesses... he'll stay until he can tell Eames wants him to go, or until he _tells_ him to go, he doesn't know. He probably won't tell him, but if there's a point where it seems like it's time to leave the forger alone...

And that's the problem, isn't it? After what he'd found when he'd driven up here, he's wary of leaving the other man alone. At least... for a couple of days, maybe. That's... not so bad, right? He's not, like, just here to keep an eye on him, after all. There's definitely something Arthur is getting out of this, himself. He's not going to mother or smother anyone, he determines.

"Okay," he says simply, climbing out of the driver's side and peering up at the storefront. And then he begins the marginally frightening task of getting groceries with Eames.

Eames, meanwhile, doesn’t seem even slightly bothered by the idea of wandering into the grocery store, probably because he doesn’t do it very often. That, and he has the feeling it is going to be all sorts of fun with Arthur. This feeling is only compounded upon seeing the way Arthur looks at him when he grabs a cart immediately upon walking into the store and discovers that it has a squeaky wheel that is magically fixed if one stands on the bar at the bottom of the cart and half-rides it, like a large, unwieldy skateboard.

This, of course, makes picking up the first interesting thing he sees- a watermelon- slightly difficult. But the forger manages. All while humming _Bad Romance_ to himself. And swerving to avoid a six-year-old boy who appears to be doing exactly the same thing as he is, only with a very small cart. Eames senses a kindred spirit and waves cheerfully. He receives a giggle for his efforts before the boy’s mother calls for him to move along.

“I worked overnight in a grocery store for a week, once,” he announces whether or not Arthur is listening, American accent back on as he pauses humming mid- chorus. “Went bowling with the frozen turkeys. Turkey bowling. I was horrid at it. What could you possibly use a gallon of marshmallow fluff mixed with peanut butter for? I want to find out.” And he will, because he promptly picks up two.

"The hell do you need that for?" Arthur asks, rolling his eyes. He picks up one of the jars and replaces it on the shelf before the cart has moved on, Eames pushing it along and hopping with it like some kind of demented rabbit, or possibly Tigger. Arthur has a moment where he flashes back to reading Winnie the Pooh stories to Philippa when she'd been a bit younger, and then shakes that off.

And checks his totem. But no, he's not dreaming. He _does_ , however, make a successful attempt to rescue the watermelon from the cart, replacing it in the bin while Eames is busy looking at jellies. Because apparently he's moved on from plain bread and toast to peanut butter, fluff, and jelly sandwiches. That in no way sounds appetizing.

 “For science,” Eames explains. He thought he already explained that fairly clearly: he has no idea what you could do with that much marshmallow fluff and peanut butter. So naturally he has to find out. Curiosity can be a good thing. It can also lead to stomach aches, but that is also a life lesson… or something like that. The point is that experiments can lead to good things.

Strawberry jelly is the first thing to go in after that. Bread will probably be necessary. Also, maybe juice or something. Eames is strangely tired of beer and he seems to have done in all the liquor. But first he comes across salad… things. Lord. Why there are so many types of lettuce is always going to be beyond Eames. It all seems much the same to him. Here he turns to Arthur. “I can only assume there is a specific lettuce you prefer.”

Arthur rolls his eyes; instead of starting in a random aisle in the middle and having to backtrack, as is apparently Eames' method, he always starts in the produce section at one end and works his way across. But he's not the one pushing the cart, and so he reaches over and takes two bags of prepared romaine, dropping them into the cart without bothering to respond aloud.

He buys dressing, too, and Eames gets his bread; Arthur also buys chicken, and the ingredients for beef Burgundy. He's not living on fluffernutter and jelly sandwiches for the rest of the week. He, at least, will cook.

Eames’ selections are nowhere near as reasonable, nor as ordered, but he does end up with things to eat besides pizza and beer. Of course, the nutritional value of a can of peanuts the size of his head (referred to, in awe, as ‘enough peanuts to feed the cast of _Pulp Fiction_ , as put on by hungry elephants’) is up for debate, but the debate only goes on until Eames discovers the ice cream aisle and is promptly dragged the hell out of there.

Sensing impending violence if he doesn’t behave just a little, Eames follows Arthur to the front of the store where he pays, managing to flirt with the middle-aged cashier and make her blush without even the aid of the thing Canadian and American women seem to have for men with British accents. Needless to say, Eames is thoroughly pleased with the entire trip by the time they actually get back to Arthur’s car. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Arthur, meanwhile, is extremely close to throttling him. He opens the trunk and begins loading the bags, swearing under his breath that if there is any goddamn Rocky Road on the inside of his car when they get back to the rental house, Eames will pay for it. In blood, possibly.

His annoyance fades during the drive back, though, draining out of him and leaving him somehow both tired and more energized. They put the groceries away (and by they, he means he himself does, shooing Eames out as soon as the man tries to put things in the wrong place) and he isn't startled to hear the Canadian soap opera on the television when he finishes, turning to see Eames on the couch. He knows he should go join him, should relax, stop stressing... but he's restless. And avoiding. He knows he's avoiding. And he doesn't have the excuse of their... whatever it was to stay away anymore.

"Do you have a PASIV here?" he ask, trying to sound casual. "I might spend some time under. Haven't, since Miami."

Having given up trying to determine how there can be a wrong place to put things in a house Arthur has only been in for a day and a half, Eames looks up from the television at Arthur, watching him for a moment before looking back down again. A PASIV… he hasn’t since Miami. Eames isn’t particularly fooled by the casual tone, but then… it’s none of his business if he’s not sure this is a good idea. After all… he saw Arthur after he’d come back from Africa.

But Arthur didn’t ask his opinion, and what does he know, anyway? Despite the fact that he has never brought along anything dangerous or distracting from his subconscious to a job- he’s (not surprisingly) very good at dissociating things enough not to bring anything much along at all- it’s not as though he’s a paragon of psychological normality. Arthur will have to do this eventually. He probably knows best.

“Ah, yes,” he says after a pause. He hasn’t touched it since he got here. In fact, the only reason it’s here at all is due to the fact that he’d had it with him in Kiev. “Upstairs. I’ll get it.”

"Thanks." Arthur presses his lips together in a rough estimation of a smile, pulling off his coat and then his jacket and hanging both up by the door. The wasitcoat isn't going anywhere, but he does unbutton his cuffs, carefully rolling up his sleeves. It's more of a process than most people would imagine; it has to be done just right so that his sleeves aren't wrinkled, and so it's not so loose that they fall down and not so tight that he can't move his arms.

Yes, he's a bit compulsive about rolling up his sleeves. He's not embarrassed. It's not the weirdest thing he's compulsive about, not by a long shot.

Eames returns with the familiar silver briefcase, and Arthur ends up sinking down onto the couch next to where the forger had been sitting, setting the PASIV on the coffee table and uncoiling one of the plastic tubes. He checks the somnacin levels out of habit, carefully adjusting them for an hour in the dream, and then glances up at Eames. "See you in five." The needle slides into a wrist that is for once free of the puncture marks that usually make anyone who works in the dream-sharing business look like a junkie, and he leans forward. Eames gets there first, though, pressing down the button, and Arthur settles back against the couch, out before he can thank the other man.

His eyes snap open five minutes later, much more violently than they usually do when he wakes from a lucid dream, and he sits up, trying not to look like he's breathing as hard as he is. He can see Eames looking at him, can read the concern in his expression out of the corner of his eye, but he pulls the needle out of his wrist and shoves himself up from the couch before the other man can say a word.

He walks outside, then, shutting the door very quietly behind himself and having completely forgotten a coat. He's not out there long, though, so it's not an issue, only long enough to walk, still very calmly, around to the side of the house... and to empty a clip into one of the old, rotting fenceposts. He keeps firing until he hears the click of an empty chamber, hadn't counted the rounds, nothing... and then lowers the gun, his hand steady even though the rest of him is shaking.

Though he is sadly as used to gunfire cropping up at random throughout his life as a man not in the middle of a war can be, Eames still jumps at the sound of it, immediately slouching down in his seat and covering his head. He sits there for a moment, aware of the direction it’s coming from and what that obviously means (since there is only one gun), but unable to quite comprehend what the hell the man is doing out there.

Concern would be a mild word for the wave of emotion that hits him, followed by mild panic, both tempered by the knowledge that going out there after him right now would be suicidal. He waits until the gunfire ends, having been counting the shots where Arthur was not. He knows the man has another gun on him, but after a moment… a minute… no more gunfire, and Eames is not about to stay inside right now.

So, careful, sadly used to ignoring the rush of adrenaline making his heartbeat speed up in tense situations, Eames follows Arthur outside. He, too, leaves off the jacket, but is very deliberate in his walk around the side of the house, making sure that he can be heard the entire time, but not making any _loud_ noises. He stops when he gets around the side of the house, far enough away that he knows he’s not within any sort of threatening zone, watching Arthur for a minute in silence before he dares speak.

When he does, it’s quietly. “Arthur,” he says, tone this side of neutral because if he speaks as gently as he wants to it’ll come off patronizing, which is frankly ludicrous. He’s rational, instead. “Come inside. They’ll have the authorities out here in a minute. Best you’re not standing there with a firearm then.”

Arthur turns to stare at him, eyes wide and incomprehending. It takes him a moment to figure out why the cops would be coming, why he shouldn't be holding a gun, why...

Because he'd just emptied a clip into a fencepost. Yeah, that might be it.

The houses here aren't exactly close together, but someone would have noticed that noise, would have realized it's significantly different from a hunting rifle or shotgun shot. "Shit," he mutters, and starts back towards the forger, leaving behind one decimated two-by-four and not fighting Eames when the other man takes the gun from him, even if it's empty.

Silently, Eames agrees with that sentiment, though he says nothing else out loud. He just takes the other man’s gun, holds a hand out for the second, takes that, and then follows Arthur inside. Once there, the door is shut and locked and Eames pauses to keep an ear out of for the sound of sirens, but none come yet. It would be more suspicious, and severely overreacting, to pack up and flee before they got there than to just say that he has no idea what that was and refuse to allow them inside.

Just in case, though, the guns disappear as quickly as he’d taken them from Arthur, and Eames is certain that unless he gets searched no one is going to be finding them. And if he is getting searched, he has bigger problems than being implicated in shooting at an inanimate object on his own (if rented) property.

There are _certainly_ bigger problems right now. Such as Arthur doing the shooting in the first place. That is about as un-Arthur-like as humanly possible, frankly, and Eames won’t lie to himself and say it hadn’t freaked him out. Is still freaking him out. But… at the same time, he’s not entirely surprised. Eames turns, eyeing Arthur, and for a long minute, can’t think of a damned thing to say. What does one say in reaction to that? Is he _shaking?_ “I think perhaps that was not the best idea ever.” And he drank all of the bloody liquor. Damn. He has nothing to offer Arthur, and in fact not even the slightest idea how to help. Eames doesn’t particularly care for feeling helpless to this degree.

Arthur nods, agreeing completely; it's only a little while later when they hear the sirens; the PASIV is moved out of sight of the door, and Eames goes out to meet the police before they can knock. Arthur is barely paying attention as he listens to the explanation, listens to Eames charming them entirely (it sounds like one is female, even) before sending them on their way. It takes him less than five minutes before he's come back inside, shutting and locking the door, and Arthur already has the needle back in his wrist.

"I have to go back under," he says quietly when he notices the look on Eames' face, sees the forger opening his mouth. "It'll be fine. Just five more minutes."

It’ll be fine? The _first_ five minutes had him out shooting at things, barely looking aware of what he was doing. And shaking. Good Christ, if that’s Arthur’s approximation of fine, Eames doesn’t want to know what anything worse than fine would be. The forger shuts his mouth for a moment, staring down at Arthur (who is sitting), and though he once again tries to remind himself that this is very much none of his business, cannot keep from registering his severe disapproval.

“Arthur,” he begins, much more seriously than usual. Even when Eames is serious, normally, he has a tendency to fall easily back into comments or lightheartedness. This tone has none of that potential. “It was just five minutes the last time. You decimated a fencepost. ‘Fine’ is not a word I would use to describe that. I understand wanting to get back on the horse, but is immediately the right way to go about it?” Subconscious is not conscious for a reason, sometimes. Some things need time before they can be faced without a man going mad.

"I wasn't prepared." The needle is in, but Arthur hasn't reached forward yet to start the PASIV. He's waiting, has registered Eames' disapproval... but he's still going under. "I wasn't expecting... I'm ready for it, this time. I just have to face it, to deal with it, stop avoiding it, and then I'll be fine to work again."

Admittedly, unloading a clip into a rotting piece of fencing isn't exactly the healthiest way to go about things. He hadn't even been _thinking_. Which is why he knows he has to do this, get it over with. "I have to do this to be fine." And before Eames can reply, he leans forward and presses down the plunger, barely tipping his weight back onto the couch in time before he's out.

When he opens his eyes, it's sandy and that is completely expected; he didn't do a damn thing to shape this dream, letting his subconscious do the work on his own, and he can smell the fishy scent of the Niger nearby, looks up at the large, metal-sided stronghold they'd taken down after a week in West Africa. He's in his fatigues again, with his gear and a tee shirt and his AK-47, exactly the way he'd been.

And it's just over there, near the river; he can see the edge from where he's standing. It had been farther away, a couple of miles away, in reality, but here, he's all alone, no team, and it's a short walk to the edge of the trench. And they're there, that hideous collage that had sent ten ex-Marines on a bloody hunt for vengeance. He hadn't been able to stomach counting them, him, Arthur, hadn't been able to deal with it; Stevens had, and he'd said he'd tallied thirty-four. Some covered by a thin layer of sand, as though whoever had dumped them there had made some cursory effort at burying them but then had given up. Or maybe he knew more would join them. And they had, no more than a day before Arthur and Chris' team had arrived, casualties of that bastard warlord's blackmail of the more influential men and women he'd tried to bring under his control... by kidnapping and slaughtering their children.

Some of the bones are bleached white, others can't have been dead more than a few days, and some are in the middle of decomposition. A tiny skeleton no more than a foot long is near the top, grinning terribly. Brightly-colored clothes, faded now from the sun, lie scattered in the pile, no order to any of it at all.

He wants to shoot himself in the head, wants to wake up. But he can't. He has to face this, has to process it, because as has been illustrated, shooting things really doesn't help. But finally he has to back away, turn his back on the horror, because it's already haunting him again and he hasn't even woken yet.

His gun is pointed at Eames' face the second he turns and sees him standing there, in fatigues just like Arthur's but unarmed, but after a moment he lowers it to point at the ground. He stares at the other man, unsurprised. "You're getting predictable." This would be a perfectly normal comment for him, if his voice wasn't shaking a little.

Distantly, Eames wants to respond to that properly, to behave normally and in doing so somehow make everything seem okay. But he can't, can't even force the smallest glare out in response to that. Because of course he followed Arthur down. What other choice was there? What else can he do but try to help? After what had happened the last time... after he'd woken up and gone out to empty a clip into the fence... Eames didn't really know what he could possibly do, but he couldn't let Arthur do this alone again. Predictable or no, it's Arthur's influence doing it. Or maybe he was always predictable, only no one knew because no one knew him well enough to recognize it. But Arthur knows, and Eames knows Arthur, and he'd had to come.

He'd known it would be bad. He'd known, had had to know, because the list of things that could do this to Arthur, _Arthur_ , is so small as to be nearly nonexistent. But this... this explains it.

Eames wants to vomit, frankly. He thinks that would be a reasonable reaction to this. But all he can do is stare. He just stands there, looking right past Arthur, and stare over the edge of the trench into the horror below. It's not real; it's only a dream. It's only a dream, he reminds himself. But that's only partially true, the calmer, reasonable part of his mind points out. It's only partially true, because this, this is what's sitting in Arthur's subconscious somewhere, this is what has been trying to drive him mad. And it got there because this is what Arthur had seen in Mali. There is no doubt about that in Eames' mind.

No wonder, he thinks distantly, they had gone after the warlord. No wonder they'd killed him. No wonder that even a month later, Arthur is still unable to deal with this without losing his goddamn mind.

The little one on the top, Eames thinks. It's so detailed. It could only be a memory, exactly. Again, he wants to vomit. Again, he just stares, only now, very directly, one horrific image at a time. "The warlord," he hears himself say after a long silence, not lifting his eyes to Arthur's. He has to see this, to try to understand what it is that is so terrible and ghastly that Arthur can't handle it alone. "The man who did this. You killed him." It's not a question; Eames knows he did, would know even if Arthur hadn't told him. But the want of a confirmation is there.

Arthur looks down at his hands, then, unable to turn around and look at what Eames is staring at, now. When Eames wakes up, at least for him it'll feel like a dream. Arthur couldn't get the sight of that tiny, grinning skull from his mind, waking or sleeping, until he'd gotten to Kiev.

His gun is gone, and his hands are covered in blood spatter. He can feel it on his face, suddenly, like tiny beads of sweat, but he knows what it is. The knife is in his hand, too; they'd had to go quick and silent and he should feel something for it but he can't. He didn't feel a damn thing for any of them.

"We killed him. And others." His voice is oddly calm. "It's not good, that I don't feel anything when I cut someone's throat, is it?" He should. He should feel something. He's not just a mindless killing machine, the service never turned him into that. What he did after, for the money, didn't do that to him, either. But this job... this job may have. "I think Mali made me a little crazy." His voice is very thoughtful, and it's more than a little eerie.

But they had to do something. They had to do something, because someone had to pay for what [name redacted] did. For a month, that was the damn goal, even as well-guarded as he was, and they'd done it. Taken out a good number of his men, too, on the way. And no one had linked it back to anything but a group of rogue terrorists. When Arthur thinks about it, here, in this place, all of that much feels almost like the dream. This place, and the blood on his hands, those are real.

When he finally manages to force his eyes away, Eames finds himself staring at Arthur, now, covered in blood and looking perfectly calm about it. Which is probably the most frightening reaction to that sort of thing he could possibly have, and it is, it does terrify Eames a little. But he stays calm because that's what he has to do right now, because Arthur is losing his bloody mind over this, and Eames can understand why. He can understand why, which is why it's so hard to try to help. You can't help, what is there you can do about something like this but let him face it and see if he makes it out the other side?

Eames has had his share of run-ins with people who've seen things... usually working jobs... that just... don't make it. They face things down and don't win. Horrible things, yeah. Like this? Eames doesn't know, doesn't want to know. And he doesn't want Arthur to end up like that. Not Arthur, God.

"Maybe," he says after a long moment, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Arthur. "But I don't know. It would have taken a madman to see what you saw and not at least try to do what you did. There's nothing else you could have done. They deserved it." Oversimplified? Maybe. But maybe not. Eames doesn't say whether or not it was the people they killed who deserved it... or the children who had been slaughtered and dumped, forgotten, in a heap like they were nothing more than trash. "You did what you could, and it's done, Arthur."

Arthur is still staring down at his hands, at the crimson spatter on them, dripping from the knife blade, but when Eames says his name he looks up. His eyes are blank, and it's a terrifying sight, but slowly they slide to something else, something more human. "It's done," he echoes after a very long moment, as though tasting the words on his tongue.

It's true. Eames is right. It doesn't even bother Arthur to admit that, even though he thinks, vaguely, that it should. But Eames _is_ right. It's over, done, and they'd finished it. There's nothing else that can be done for these children; they're buried, now, and avenged as much as is humanly possible. And they won't be forgotten; that is one thing Arthur is certain of.

He lets the knife fall from his grip, watching its fall, which seems abnormally slow, until it hits the sand, point-first, and stays there, buried in the dirt.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, they're still standing a few feet apart, but they're in that hotel room in Kiev, and Eames is wearing sweats and that ridiculous sweater, he's barefoot, and Arthur isn't wearing a shirt and he thinks he might be about to cry. Fuck. He doesn't goddamn _cry._

Here is okay. Here is safe. That's what his subconscious appears to be telling him now, anyway. And when he looks down, the blood on his hands is gone. He stares, startled and unable to think of anything to say.

Equally startled, Eames stares, too, first at Arthur, and then down at himself, in his sweater, sweatpants, barefoot. Normal for the time they'd spent in Kiev. Arthur, too, looks normal again, the blood gone, the fatigues as well. He looks like Arthur, apart from the fact that he looks shocked and as though he may begin to cry, which is a look Eames finds suddenly that he really, really doesn't like to see on the other man. In fact, at the moment, he would probably give his left arm never to see it again. But at the same time... at the same time, it's almost good to see it there, after what he'd looked like a few moments ago.

And this... whatever this means, that they're here, now, that shitty room in Kiev where Arthur had shown up one day... where something about their... thing, whatever it is, had changed... the fact that this is where they are now, this is what Arthur retreats to, should scare him witless. But it doesn't. All Eames can feel is relief. Because... yeah, this isn't fixed, it's not gone forever, he's not done with it. But he'll survive. And for a minute, that wasn't certain.

And Eames is surprised to find that he can't remember ever being more terrified than he was for that minute.

"Arthur," he says again, and then closes the distance between them without thinking; he realizes at the last moment that the other man may not want to be touched, but does anyway, and Arthur doesn't flinch away immediately, seems too dazed to react in a timely fashion. Which is how Eames manages to get both arms around him before he can be stopped. There's nothing sexual about it; it's just... holding on to him. If this isn't quite manly, so be it. "It's done, love."

The endearment seems to jolt Arthur back into wakefulness. Very slowly, he lets his face lower until his forehead is resting against Eames' shoulder, burying his face there after a moment and inhaling deeply. Even here, in the dream, it smells real, like wool, and beneath that, just Eames.

It takes him a few minutes to realize that said wool is growing damp beneath him, that he's crying... and he doesn't care. He doesn't care, but just stands there, leaning on the other man and letting it out, not giving a shit about his pride or his masculinity. And slowly, that tightness in his chest that hadn't gone away in almost two months, that eases some.

It doesn't feel like almost an hour, but he still hasn't moved when the dream crumbles around them, and then his eyes are opening and he's staring up at the ceiling above the couch, Eames next to him. He looks over after a pause, after he reorients himself, having no idea what the hell to say after that.

Unable to help it, Eames finds himself looking over at Arthur as well, equally at a loss for words. Which, given the fact that Eames is… Eames, is slightly more than unusual. But maybe not terribly surprising. Everything makes so much sense, now… but… Eames thinks… he thinks Arthur will be okay. Arthur, he concludes, is one bloody strong sort of man.

“You know,” he says finally, sitting up just enough to remove the needle from his arm; that was the first time he’d gone under in a month, himself, and Eames is almost sad for the needle mark that’ll be there, now. “I always knew you liked that sweater, deep down.”

There's a brief pause, during which Arthur manages to smother the urge to laugh loudly, and contents himself with a slight smirk. "It looks like the Lucky Charms leprechaun vomited on it." And just like that, the awkwardness is eased; he makes no move to sit up the rest of the way, but stares at the PASIV for a second before looking over at Eames again, feeling oddly... lighter.

"I never wanted you to see that." It's somehow... possible to talk about it, now. Not in-depth, because he doesn't want to spiral back down into that black hole, but he can mention it, at least. This is... new.

“That would be why I followed you without asking your permission,” Eames points out. Which, admittedly, had been at once a very strange thing for Eames to do, and also completely characteristic of him. He’s a curious sort, but he’s also a private sort, and that makes him respect the privacy of people he deals with- not marks, not subjects, but colleagues and friends.

But at the same time… he hadn’t felt there was a choice, not after he’d seen what had happened the first time. Not after having seen Arthur in Kiev. Not knowing that no one else would know to try, or dare if they did. It hadn’t really been a choice. And now… now Arthur looks like Arthur again, and yes, this doesn’t mean that everything is suddenly roses and puppies, but it’s… better, a little. And so Eames doesn’t regret it. Not at all.

So he falls back a little once the needle is gone from his arm, looking over at Arthur, for once strangely able to meet his eyes. “I’m glad I did.” So glad he doesn’t even respond to the Lucky Charms comment.

Well aware that he's not referring to seeing the mass grave in Mali, Arthur nods slowly. "I am, too," he says, refusing to let the words be a mumble. He doesn't comment on the fact that the place his subconscious had taken them to had been Kiev, that that hotel room had been his first thought of a safe haven... no. There's no need to voice any of that. He's certain Eames knows.

And Eames has his own troubles. Arthur figures they've spent enough time in the past month dealing with things threatening to permanently fuck up their minds... and he has the sudden, unbidden urge to go somewhere in particular. He's not the type of person to just act on whims, however, unlike certain other people, but... well. He'll think about it. Give it a couple of days. It's not so much that he wouldn't want to take Eames, but... he's not sure how _Eames_ would react.

Still. He'll mention it once he's had time to think it over. Letting the tension drain out of his shoulders, he turns his eyes to the television, raising a brow. "So is that another one of the triplets?"

Taking the cue, Eames turns to eye the television. It’s the same actor, but… “I’m not sure,” he admits after a moment. “Which have you seen? One of them seems to have an evil alter-ego. Like a super villain, only without any remotely interesting powers.”

Happy to carry on meaningless conversation for as long as Arthur will let him, Eames continues to explain the plot of the soap opera he’d been watching as it carries on for several episodes. After that, he demands a meal by way of announcing that he is going to ‘see what can be done with that giant arse bottle of fluffy peanut whatsit’ and that Arthur absolutely _has_ to at least be there while he does so. Arthur ends up with a salad. Eames ends up getting peanut butter everywhere. Neither of them is quite certain how it got on the ceiling, but the resulting shower is very nice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Neither Agar nor I mean to imply that anything like what Arthur experienced has ever taken place in Mali or anyone else. Maybe it has, I don't know, probably somewhere, but it's horrible, and... yes. I suppose this disclaimer should go without saying, but I just wanted to say it, since the idea of that gave me nightmares. -sarisa


End file.
